The Northern Star
by Lauryn Vi
Summary: "He wanted to see her face to face, wanted to speak with her, wanted her closer - not for sex, but for the haunting melody that wrung his heart. For her dress, for her mannerisms, for everything about her that made him heartsick, and yet, he clung to it like a liferaft." - Two strangers who've lost their way meet on a small Greek island far, far from home. [A/U]
1. Prologue

Prologue

Georg's senses awoke before he did. His body relaxed into the familiar rocking of the boat – the gentle lull of a habour breeze, not the demanding wind of the open seas he'd experienced the past few days. It was hot and humid, typical of a Mediterranean summer, and he could tell he'd be in a sweat if he so much as opened his eyes.

It was quiet. Peaceful. He lingered in the space between sleep and wakefulness, as though his subconscious knew that waking would bring about a very different man.

Then there was the matter of dealing with whichever woman he was certain to find in his bed – for the pressure that was already building in his head was a sure sign he'd had an extremely indulgent night (not to mention the fact he had no recollection of it), which for some reason women seemed to find inexplicably attractive. Not that he'd tried so hard to resist, these past few years. But one-night stands were one thing. Explaining to the women he had no interest in spending any more time with them, placating them with sweet words and little trinkets until they left his boat was becoming an ever-more tedious ordeal.

He sighed inwardly, surfacing reluctantly from sleep. When he finally opened his eyes, he found himself alone. Mercifully alone, but strangely so.

Confused and not quite awake, he rolled away from the sunlight flooding through the small circular window in his cabin – a harsh searing light suggesting noon or close to.

But even the dark wood panels of the cabin walls were too much this morning, and he felt his stomach lurch.

_Scheiss__e. _The headache that had been his companion for so many months it was almost a friend was _definitely_ worse than usual. The room spun as he fought to get his bearings, his thoughts sluggishly emerging from the alcohol-induced haze that had not quite receded.

It was mid-June, 1929.

He was in the Adriatic. No. He swore again. He had sailed through that way already, sometime last week. He was somewhere in the Aegean Sea. Milos, a small, sleepy Greek island he hadn't been since he was a lad sailing with his father.

His name was Georg Von Trapp.

When. Where. Who. He had received a bad concussion once during his time in the navy, and the ship doctor had forced him to recite it every day. It had taken a month then to get it right.

By that standard, he was doing well this morning. His Captain would have cleared him for duty.

But Georg wasn't in the navy anymore, wasn't living aboard a war vessel. He was a vagabond, sailing in a one-man yacht. His disorientation had nothing to do with receiving a hit to the head. In fact, it was very much self-imposed. Disgraceful, Elsa would have said – probably _had_ said, behind his back – but why did it matter? She had removed herself from his life, and he no longer had a family to fight for or return to.

At least Georg knew where he was, and, in a manner of speaking, how he had gotten here.

But where was the little guitar player? He had met her last night, he was sure.

He could see her face in his mind, the image nearly as blinding as the offensive sunlight. She had an ethereal sort of attractiveness, more like a moonbeam than sunshine, really – pale skin even underneath her tan, soft lips, light blue eyes, framed by a halo of light blonde hair that fringed rather crookedly across her forehead. The stubborn lift of her chin had been a surprising contrast to her delicate features. Not his usual type of woman, but somehow she had left a far sharper longing.

The need, it seemed, had gone unfulfilled.

Georg swung his legs over the edge of the bed and pulled himself into a sitting position, ignoring the sickening swoop in his gut as his surroundings spun.

Painfully, he thought back to the previous evening. It had been late afternoon when he'd docked his yacht in the small harbor in Adamas, the only notable town on the island of Milos. He vaguely recalled prowling the narrow dusty streets, and stumbling into the first bar he came across. He'd had had a dry spell – relatively speaking – during his week at sea, and desperately wanted to stop somewhere for a drink. Georg never allowed himself to sail drunk. It might have been more reflex – he would have been skinned alive for showing up intoxicated in the navy – but there was still a part of him that understood even though he had given up, he wasn't completely ready to forfeit his life.

Thinking about the bar now turned his stomach. He could feel a bitterness in his mouth, although his lips were parched in the heat. Georg navigated the length of the cabin into the galley, helping himself to a glass of water at the sink. It felt cooler here, and he sat gratefully at the small table. Summer on the Greek islands was a very different beast from summers in the Austrian Alps. Although he hated the heat, the stark difference was welcome. Georg didn't want to think about Austria. Didn't want to think about what he'd left behind.

He returned to the problem of last night. He remembered the owner of the bar had been short, stout, tanned, and eager to please, though it may have had something to do with his own generosity. He remembered making small talk with the man – his name was Stavros… or was it Nico? – as the waiter served him drink after drink. Georg's Greek was shoddy, but like everyone in port towns, they managed to get by with a medley of languages and the occasional hand gesture.

Georg must have stayed for the better part of the evening, although he remembered less and less of it as the night wore on. The bar turned out to be sort of a cabaret, with a parade of musical numbers and showgirls lighting up the makeshift stage. The set up wasn't uncommon for small port towns like these, where sailors passing by could have their needs seen to in one fell swoop. Georg had fleeting recollections of the dancing girls, whom he had liked. They had flirted shamelessly with him in between acts, taking turns sitting on his lap like a game of musical chairs.

There had been bold caresses, teasing fingers, voluptuous curves and generous bosoms. A guitar supplied the sensual background music, encouraging romantic liaisons, encouraging him to sit longer, to buy all the girls drinks…

He would have stayed until the bar closed, and might very well have gone back to the yacht with one of them, if it hadn't been for the music.

If _she_ hadn't played the only song that could have touched him in his drunken stupor, reaching across the span of months – years, now – across thousands of miles and countless forgettable nights and meaningless nighttime trysts…

Even on the morning after, Georg remembered the feeling that held him, suddenly oblivious to his flock of dancing ladies.

_Edelweiss_.

How could he be hearing it, _here_?The edelweiss of Austria. The edelweiss of home. For, despite having buried a beloved wife, lost seven children, and lost a most acceptable second marriage, Austria would always be home.

It was a soft, halting rendition, as though the musician had become lost in memories of her own, while playing a song no one was supposed to notice.

Georg had searched for her, the girl who had the unfortunate job of filling in between the colorful cabaret acts. She was easy to spot, for she was sitting right there on the makeshift stage, the area now cleared of everything but the lone chair set out for her. He supposed she too, was a showgirl, with her slender silhouette, long legs, and talented fingers, but she looked so inconspicuous his eyes must have passed over her a dozen times while she had played the evening. She wore a light green dress, the hemline long and neckline modest – a dress more suited for country life back home than for a stage in Milos. Her head was bent over her guitar as she coaxed the familiar melody. Everything about her, from her blond hair to her stubborn pointed chin to her wool-spun dress, looked so _Austrian_.

How could _she _be _here_?

Georg remembered watching her, feeling sad, sad, sad, unable to tell if the sorrow was exuding from her, or him.

He didn't remember beckoning over the bar's owner, didn't remember delivering the request, but he remembered Stavros – or was it Nico? – shooing the dancing girls unceremoniously away from him, remembered being led to a private booth…

Remembered waiting. Remembered the whispered voices – his cajoling, hers angry, nearly tearful. He managed to pick out a few words. Her Greek was nearly as broken and halting as his own.

… _private clientele… _

… _promised you wouldn't… _

… _very wealthy… _

…_not that kind of service…_

Then, in very clear German with an unmistakable Austrian lilt, the words desperate. "Please, I can't do what you're asking."

If Georg had been sober, he would have stopped everything right there. Perhaps he _was _depraved, but he would never have encouraged the kind of nightmare the girl thought she was walking into, the kinds of encounters that frequently occurred in shadowy booths like these. Stavros/Nico evidently didn't understand a word of it, for then she was standing in front of him, sans guitar, and he heard retreating steps that underscored the privacy the bar's owner was granting them.

She was a slender slip of a woman. A small, fragile thing. But she looked right at him, meeting him stare for stare, her luminous blue eyes steady and determined, if not entirely fearless.

That look, that face… he couldn't stop seeing it even if he wanted to.

She looked at him, waiting. Her expression, though wary, was neutral – too mild to be considered resentment. Had she practiced it? How to hide her revulsion for _this _part of her job when men came calling?

Even in his state, the thought was bitter in his mind. But had he rushed to reassure her? To explain that he desperately wanted to see her face to face, wanted to speak with her, wanted her closer – not for sex, God knows he could have had his pick of any of the girls for _that – _but for the haunting melody that still wrung his heart? For her dress, for her mannerisms, for everything about her that made him heartsick and yet, he found himself clinging to it like a liferaft. Surely he had not. Even if he hadn't been intoxicated, Georg doubted he could have put any of that into words.

He couldn't recall what he'd said to her, or what she'd said to him. All he could remember were the variations in her expressions, the changing light in her eyes.

Uncertainty.

Fear.

Surprise.

Curiosity.

What had he done with her? Georg wondered now, with an increasing sense of shame and trepidation.

Surely he had not… he wouldn't have pressured a young woman who so obviously wanted nothing to do with him, showgirl or not, intoxicated or not.

But he had been very very drunk. He _couldn't_ remember, try as he might, what they had done.

He rifled through his time with the haunting young guitarist as though he were looking through a series of stills. There was one where they sat together, side by side. Another of her leaning in toward him, with no hint of distaste. Another where she looked at him with a spark in her eye – not of fear, but of… anger? Exasperation?

They had talked, Georg was certain of that. She had a sweet, slightly prim, feminine voice. He couldn't recall a single verbal exchange between them, but he followed the conversation through her hands, which were almost as expressive as her eyes. The saw them clasped together in nervousness. Saw the way they raked through her short bob in what might have been frustration, or perhaps helplessness. Saw them gesturing animatedly in excitement.

So their conversation hadn't been an absolute failure, at least.

At one point, she had held a glass in her hand. Had he coaxed her into having a drink or two?

Yes, yes he had. And – morning-after Georg inhaled at the picture – they had even _shared _a drink. It hadn't been intimate. Rather, it had felt… easy. Relaxed.

Had he gotten her drunk as well? Had he touched her? Offered to bring her back to his boat?

Georg couldn't remember. How could he not recall anything they said? Why could he only seem to remember how she looked, and how he had felt? Perhaps that was the strangest part – that he could remember feelingat all.

He called up the memory of leaving the bar with her, and walking out into the seeming darkness (Milos was a black hole compared to the glitz of Vienna… or even Salzburg). With it, he felt a sharp pang of wanting that had somehow run deeper than any feelings of lust.

He reached further, managing to conjure the image of her standing with him at the pier. His boat would have been berthed right in front of them. But sometime between that image and this morning, they had parted ways.

Georg searched his memory for any further recollections, now vastly relieved he hadn't woken to her in his bed. Somehow, the little he did remember had become precious to him; sparkling moments in time, gems along a string of meaningless nights. He could only be grateful that he could hold this apart from all those others, spare her from an awkward morning encounter, from the resentment and regret that would have inevitably followed for both of them.

Before he could feel completed relieved, one more moment came to him. So he had kissed her, after all. A glance into eyes that had become alluring blue pools in the night, so close to his. A stolen kiss, breathless and brief, against soft lips that had yielded against his. But he also remembered that when he let her go, she had been shaking like a leaf.

Georg groaned, holding his aching head in his hands, palms digging against his closed eyelids as though he could wipe away the stains in his conscience. Something about her vulnerability shook straight through her and into him.

She had only been doing her job, reluctantly entertaining an old sailor just passing through – and yet somehow she'd manage to illuminate the path of destruction he'd left in his wake.

How had he gotten here, to be seducing a strange young woman in a land so far away?

What had he become that he had frightened her so?

Perhaps Georg Von Trapp did not know who he was, after all.

* * *

A/N: Welcome to the start of my next story! I've had this scene in my mind for a very long time, but have been reluctant to weave it into anything as there are so many stories that write darker!Georg better than I ever could. (In fact, when this story was born it was quite a bit darker, but I couldn't handle it!)

Please bear with me as returning readers will know I am generally slow to update and respond to messages - but I really love and am inspired by this community so much I just can't stay away from it, no matter how busy life gets.

Thank you for reading and embarking on this new journey with me! All feedback appreciated. xx


	2. The Siren

A/N: A quick note before we begin - I hemmed and hawwed over the use of the words Austrian German/German/Austrian to describe the language - "Austrian German" was so unwieldy, "German" too impersonal to the scenes, and "Austrian" technically not a language at all... so I sort of pick and choose as I go along. ;)

* * *

The Siren

The bar was named the Siren.

It was, Georg supposed begrudgingly, a fitting name, since he'd been unable to banish the thoughts of the young woman and her haunting music all day, despite a long swim in the still cool Aegean sea. And now he found himself, the sun only just beginning to set, making his way from the pier up the baking road and back to the doorstep of the wretched place.

The difference was that he was not drunk this time, nor did he plan to be. He had behaved abominably enough last night.

The inside of the Siren was cozier than he remembered, with worn wooden tables that looked to be driftwood and groupings of mix-matched stools and chairs. Even the private booths tucked away at the back of the room were bathed in warm, afternoon sun. A smoky tang clung to the sea breeze drifting through the open windows.

It was not yet evening, but the room was already half full, boisterously loud with folks grateful for a cold beverage in the grilling heat. The Siren clearly saw a good amount of traffic – if there was another bar or restaurant tucked along some scorching alleyway further up the street, he suspected that like him, visitors were in no mood to find out.

The bar's owner – seeing him again did nothing to help Georg remember his name – waved cheerfully to him from across the room with a hollered "Yassou, Captain! Kalos orises piso!" _Welcome back. _He wasn't entire happy to be recognized, but he supposed he had made enough a fool of himself the night before to be recognizable.

He watched the owner as he sipped a cool beer, making sure to eat as well this time. Somehow, Stavros/Nico had acquired a menacing countenance in his mind, but in reality, seemed an energetic, hardworking chap. So hardworking, perhaps, that he didn't mind thrusting reluctant young women into the arms of old debaucherous men.

The thought made him scowl, whether of the owner as the former or himself as the latter.

Perhaps it was his dark expression that had owner and fellow patrons alike steering clear of him, but by the time the cabaret started, Georg was still sitting alone. It was dark now – he'd watched silently as the sky outside the windows turned a fiery orange and then an ever deepening purple. The bar had filled to capacity, a cacophony of sounds each louder than the next. He'd had a few tumblers, but a full meal and several glasses of water gave him a clear head as he turned his attention to the stage.

He watched the showgirls enter in a line to cheers and a few whistles. They started their number, and Georg found himself growing disinterested, waiting in anticipation for a break in the show. For the little guitar player to appear on stage. The girls were talented enough, but the show was clearly designed not to showcase skill, but to appeal to men's… other faculties. Skin and red feathers floated everywhere. Sirens indeed. He scanned the girls – and almost choked on his water.

The guitarist had become a dancer, today.

She was dressed like the others, in a feathered pin up skirt and sleeveless top with a revealing sweetheart neckline, a ridiculous boa draped loosely around her shoulders. Her features were made up and exaggerated, and she had pulled her short hair away from her face to give it more definition. He was both fascinated and disconcerted to see she moved just as elegantly, bounced just as energetically, kicked her legs just as high as the other girls. She _was _one of them, blending in so well he wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't been paying attention.

Georg stared, riveted at the change in her – he was sure the young woman he'd met yesterday was this same one. The girls had come to the end of their act, and were blowing kisses into the crowd. He could see the difference now. Compared to her fellow dancers, her movements seemed more subtle, more restrained. Her smile, while radiant, was bland, offering nothing. While the other girls made eyes with sailors and blew kisses at men who cheered louder, hers flitted about the room, as though hoping if she noticed nobody, no one would notice her.

Georg half expected her to come back on after the girls had filed off the stage, with her guitar and perhaps wearing another dress that looked as though it could be home spun. When she did not – when a young man with a mandolin sat in the lone chair to provide the night's background music – he found himself oddly disappointed.

A commotion near the opposite side of the room heralded the dancing girls' return to the bar to mingle with the crowd. He watched as they percolated toward his direction, slowly dispersing amongst the crowd. He saw the way their eyes wandered, selecting targets that might have more to offer them. A drink, a tip, a night of fun.

He had been amongst them, last night. A magnet for several of them, if he remembered correctly. Georg looked away, fighting a sense of revulsion that always seemed to prevail whenever he examined things too closely. This was just another kind of performance, he told himself, another way to earn a living.

He spotted her in the crowd; the showgirl he couldn't think of as anything but a guitarist. She had also come out, and was chatting with a table of men. Georg called for the waiter to bring him another drink, and watched her. He noticed she remained standing, keeping the table between herself and the men. Yet she was talking animatedly, throwing herself wholeheartedly into the story she was telling. And as if on cue, all four men at the table burst into laughter. Her eyes sparkled and laughed with them. Then, she started tracing something across the table, and the men laughed again. But the next moment, she was straightening abruptly as she saw one of the men ogling her as she leaned forward. Minutes later, the same man had gotten one of his arms around her waist, pulling her close. Her body remained relaxed and pliable, a willing participant, but Georg was watching her face and saw something in her eyes shutter.

He scowled, feeling a powerful urge to yank her away from the men and knock them all on their assess.

A move that would undoubtedly get him kicked out of the bar.

But even as he fought the sudden violent impulse, she was sliding out of the man's grasp, still smiling sweetly. He saw her mouth form words, saw all four men nod. Georg looked on covertly as she moved away from the table to behind the bar, where she proceeded to line up four glasses and mix four different drinks, pouring so expertly not one drop spilled. He didn't know why he should feel so surprised that she was a decent mixologist – she did work at a bar, after all.

She placed the drinks onto a serving tray, and held it aloft with one hand as she navigated the crowd back to her table, an easy sway to her hips. Her slim profile was half turned from him, but he thought he could see her slight sag of relief as she spotted one of her dancer comrades had joined the table. She distributed the drinks, which were met with drunken exclamations of appreciation. Between the beverages and her coworker, the men were sufficiently distracted. Georg watched as she made her way back to the bar, watched her slip behind the counter again, and stay there for good.

She continued mixing drinks for other customers, her smiles cheerful and hands moving expertly. There was none of the vulnerability and strange melancholy he'd noticed about her yesterday. And yet yesterday she had felt so real. She'd had a rawness that had drawn him to her, and held him there.

It wasn't that he wasn't drawn to her tonight – in fact, it was just the opposite. Georg was fascinated by how confidently she moved, how easily she flirted with men, how deftly she deflected unwanted attention. Hell, he was even mesmerized by the unfaltering way she tended to the bar. It was like watching a skilled actor carry out an intricately crafted script. If he didn't have the collection of memories of how she had appeared to him last night, would he have noticed anything about her? The sudden pallor of her face when she'd felt cornered? The way her lids shuttered every so often, as thought she had something to hide? Would he have noticed that her bright smile never reached her eyes? That her voice was a pitch higher than it had been yesterday?

Georg wondered how she could seem so practiced yet so uncomfortable working in a place like this.

What kind of place would make a woman like her comfortable?

The thought came to him before he'd even finished the question – an image of mountains and trees and fresh air.

His breath came as a hiss between his lips. He put his drink down onto the table, choosing instead his glass of water, and walked over to the bar. He waited until she had finished serving the last of the line up, and had turned away to tidy the ingredients.

"Hello."

* * *

She whirled around at the sound of his voice, almost dropping the glass she'd been wiping down.

Her heart jumped into her throat. The Captain had returned for a second night in a row. She didn't know if she would see him again - didn't know if she _wanted_ to see him again - and she hadn't wanted to ask.

He was leaning against the counter, wearing what seemed to be his trademark white linen shirt, collar loosened and top two buttons undone. He looked enviously cool, and his head of thick, dark hair seemed immune to the humidity that turned hers into a permanent halo of frizz. He said 'hello' in Austrian German, like he had yesterday. It may have been the only thing that kept her from turning and fleeing that shadowy booth last night.

_She stood before him, eyeing him warily. He was tall and tanned, older than the usual sailor that came through the Siren, young men wandering the world looking for adventure. He had chiseled features like a marble statue, with a very human look of tight discipline. Not to be crossed. The look was strangely incongruous with the drink-induced haze in his eyes. He sat in the booth slouched against the seat, arms draped comfortably against the cushions, as though he didn't have a care in the world. Alcohol did that – she'd seen enough to know._

"_How did you know I'm Austrian?" She stammered, confused at the smooth way the word issued from his lips, so unlike the stuttering enunciation she'd grown used to during her time here, if people tried to speak her language at all._

_His smirk told her he'd anticipated her reaction. "I thought you wanted people to know," he continued in Austrian, his words slightly slurred from drink._

"_What?"_

_He jerked his head carelessly back toward the direction of the stage. "You were playing Edelweiss. You were practically sitting up there waving an Austrian flag."_

_She ducked her head, feeling exposed – more so standing in front of this one man than she had the whole evening playing for a packed bar. She tried not to fidget, tried not to let her uneasiness show._

"_Didn't expect anyone to recognize it?" He leaned forward against the table to look at her with an intensity she didn't think anyone with blood that was probably over half whiskey could muster. His words fell somewhere between a scoff and a sneer, as though he were both reprimanding her and laughing at her at the same time._

"_I wasn't thinking about it at all," she admitted defensively. "I just... played it."_

_He relaxed again, leaning back into the cushions. His eyes seemed to soften. "And I just... heard it."_

She swallowed. That had been only the beginning of a very strange night. It turned out to be nothing like she feared, and yet... she was scared all the same. She'd tried not to think about it, tried to file the memories away for when the days were hardest. Memories of a pleasant conversation. Of being allowed to just be herself. Of the man who had given her what could only be what they called _butterflies_. Of the inexplicable moonlight kiss that had been nothing like anything she had ever felt. It was as though for one night, she had stopped being herself and turned into someone else.

But it had taken such a long time to make peace with who she was, what she had. To see him standing in front of her again, pinning her with that gaze of his - well, she wasn't sure if she was happy to see him. _Don't show them how you really feel, Stavros had counseled. You, darling, are an actress._

"Good evening, Captain."

His eyebrows drew together. "Didn't we introduce ourselves yesterday?"

She almost snorted, quickly trying to wipe the incredulous look off her face. "Yes, we did. You asked me to call you Captain."

She was gratified to see that he looked somewhat sheepish. "I did?"

"Yes."

"Well, that was rude of me. It must have been the whiskey talking." He waved around his glass of water in emphasis. "Could we try that bit again?"

She knew his style from the night before. The man could be sarcastically caustic one moment and deceptively charming the next – a man used to saying what he thought and getting his way. Nonetheless, she accepted his gesture of goodwill.

"Good evening, Captain."

He inclined his head. "Thank you, Fraulein..."

"Maria," she supplied.

"Fraulein Maria." He repeated her name almost carefully, trying it out – as though he hadn't been calling her that all the previous night like they were intimately acquainted.

"Um." It was her turn. She scrolled through her mental scripts. "I'm afraid I don't know _your_ name, Captain," she said, the coquettish inflection almost by habit, although she'd never said it before in Austrian.

He frowned. "Fraulein, you don't need to use that tone with me."

She bit her lip. He was scolding her, but he didn't seem to be angry. Maria didn't bother telling him this was who she was at the Siren, and it was hard to step away from the role. He knew that she could – had witnessed it for himself.

"And it's Von Trapp. Georg Von Trapp."

"Captain Georg Von Trapp," she echoed, and couldn't help a smile. The playfulness wasn't forced, this time. His name sounded so... so _grand_. Of course, Maria remembered, he was an aristocrat. A sailor and an aristocrat. What a strange combination.

"Actually, it's more like Captain Georg Johannes Ritter von Trapp." He grimaced, as if reading her thoughts.

Maria tried unsuccessfully to choke back a laugh. A spark lit deep in his eyes as his lips twitched. It made him look... different from the brooding, volatile sailor she had met yesterday.

He was studying her. That was something she'd noticed last night – he spent more time staring at her than he did talking. Maria felt strange, meeting him again when he knew next to nothing about her, yet she now knew quite a bit about him.

"No guitar tonight," he commented at last.

She looked down at her costume, suddenly remembering she was wearing it. "No, not tonight, unfortunately. I had to fill in for one of the girls."

"Unfortunately?"

Realizing her lapse too late – the Captain was so... _quick_ – Maria gestured a hand at her dress, then gave a little shrug, resisting the urge to also roll her eyes. She never felt sillier than when she wore these get ups. She couldn't imagine men falling for women prancing across a room dressed like a feather duster – and yet they did, night after night.

He seemed to read in her eyes the things she couldn't say. "You don't like to be noticed." It wasn't a question. Maria was on the verge of shaking her head – after all, she'd made it through two years here – when he added, "you'd rather be the girl from last night, tucked away behind your guitar, letting the music speak for you."

He refused to let her go, his gaze stern, until Maria was forced to acknowledge the truth. It wasn't _quite_ the truth – she never cared to be noticed, she supposed, but she never feared it before. Until she came here. "I've always been able to lose myself in the music," she allowed herself to say instead. "_That_ has gotten me into trouble a number of times in my past." It had also, in a twisted sense, saved her – but she wasn't about to get into that with a stranger.

"Fraulein Maria..." Captain Von Trapp paused, frowning. "About, uh... last night – I behaved badly. I apologize."

"You have nothing to apologize for, Captain." It was the truth.

"I was unacceptably drunk and remember inexcusably little of it." Maria had assumed as much, and felt rather relieved. She didn't want an evening that had meant something to her to be yet another night in an endless string of meaningless nights for him. She didn't want to be one of those girls, one of his many conquests at one of his many ports. In her two years at the Siren, she had learned something of sailors.

He waited until she met his gaze. "I ask you to forgive anything untoward I might have said or done."

Maria looked at the floor, feeling her cheeks heat. Untoward. Was that what he called it?

"_Take a seat." He gestured the cushion next to him, moving his arm to make room for her. _

"_Relax," he told her when she hesitated, "I haven't got fangs." He flashed a smile – too perfect to be a real smile – revealing even pearly teeth. _

_Cautiously, Maria obeyed, sliding into the booth to sit beside him. They were not touching, but she could feel his warmth, could smell his masculine scent mixed with the tang of whiskey and something distinctly sailor, which spoke of endless skies and white-capped seas. Her legs and arms aligned with his, hers shorter, his long and roped with muscle, obvious even through his white shirt and long trousers. Not bulky, but more made for stealth and speed. Like that of a predator stalking its prey. She stiffened__. _

_He noticed. "Fraulein. You don't need to be afraid."_

But it hadn't been fear. Not exactly.

She cleared her throat. "What I said still stands." When he looked at her skeptically, she added, "given that of the two of us, I'm the only one who remembers, you really should take my word."

To her surprise, the Captain snorted, but the sound ended in a deep sigh. That was something else she'd noticed about him. Captain Von Trapp was troubled. She wondered if he'd ever had a moment when his conscious felt clear, when he permitted himself to just enjoy the moment.

"I do remember _some _of it," he protested. "I remember sitting together. And I remember having a rather lengthy conversation…"

"In which you told me your life story?" Maria went a bit wicked – after all, he _had _been extraordinarily intoxicated.

He blanched. "I hope there wasn't anything particularly unpalatable."

In which he really meant he hoped he hadn't divulged the darkest parts of his past. Maria had born witness to it often these past few years working at the Siren, the secrets men revealed under the protection of alcohol and the presence of a harmless young lady with sympathetic eyes. She'd heard some truly dreadful things, foolish things, bad decisions… but Captain Von Trapp? She supposed his greatest guilt was grief.

_He'd surprised her by talking about Edelweiss. Of all the questions he could have asked, the Captain asked if she liked Edelweiss. _

"_I love it," she answered honestly, taken aback by his abrupt segue, "but more for… all it represents." _

_He nodded slowly, as though the answer had been more profound than it had. "It should be blooming right about now, in the mountains." He sounded positively morose. "I loved it very much. My wife used to take the early morning train up in the summer to pick great armfuls of it for me, trailing it all about the house after she came back before she could find vases big enough to hold all of it. It got to the point where our housekeeper suggested she just call a florist. 'But what would be the fun in that?'" He gave a very bitter ring to what Maria was sure had been a very merry remark. _

_Maria didn't dare ask what had happened to his wife. He was speaking as though an invisible valve had been released, and the result was a pressured string of thoughts that had escaped. The alcohol had turned him into an observer of his own memories, had turned the unbearable ones into ones he could now examine and speak about freely. _

"_That was a very very long time ago, Maria. For years, I continued going up to the mountains, whenever I needed an escape." He shrugged, the gesture bleak. "But it wasn't enough." He didn't say what he was escaping from, either then or now. He lapsed into a vehement silence. _

_Touched by the Captain's sorrow, she offered something herself, leaning in to gain his attention. "I was born near the Untersberg. In Salzburg. The mountains were my home. And even after I'd moved to Vienna… and later here, they are still my mountains." _

_He turned toward her. His eyes glittered. "I too, hail from Salzburg." _

"_Really?" The sudden leap of kinship she felt was dampened by how close he was – dark, imposing, and dangerous. Instead, she studied him curiously, trying to match his imperious presence with a location she might know. _

"_Aigen, actually," he clarified helpfully. _

_The riddle fell immediately into place. Aigen, the beautiful strip of countryside between the mountains and the lake, each walled estate so huge your closest neighbor might be miles away. Maria had always loved that little bit of country – would sometimes take the bus there just for the sense of freedom she felt at how expansive, how unrestrained everything was, on the days when she didn't quite want the wilderness of the mountainside. _

"_Why did you leave it?" _

_His face shuttered and he pulled back abruptly. "I was a Captain in the navy during the war. I was and will always be a sailor. My home is at sea now." The words lashed like a whip. Maria nodded sycophantically and bit her lip to stay silent. _

_Diffuse diffuse diffuse, she chanted to herself, the way Stavros used to admonish her when she hadn't learned to bite her tongue. _

_So he says, she thought to herself, instead. He might be a sailor, but Maria could clearly picture him in Aigen, hosting grand parties in his grand house, riding in the countryside at dawn, rowing about the lake in the evening._

The images of him in his hometown were so vivid she'd suddenly felt herself blush. She felt as though she had stepped into his private life without being invited. Surely he must have done those things once – was it all because of his wife that he no longer did? Maria didn't pry. It wasn't in her job description to pry.

Realizing she'd let the silence go on for a moment too long, and Captain Von Trapp was likely thinking the worst, she decided to put him out of his misery.

"You told me you came from Salzburg – from Aigen. You told me you were in the navy. And that you had a – that you were married once," Maria fumbled, fearing the word "wife" might open unnecessary wounds. As it was, she glanced at him, worried about his reaction.

But to her surprise, his expression cleared. "Is that all?" His voice sounded more blithe than she'd heard all evening. "Yes – that was a long time ago." The Captain shrugged nonchalantly, as though he'd moved past it. He'd said similar last night, in a very different tone. He addressed her cheerfully. "If you know Aigen, you must be from the mountains as well."

She decided to let it go. Not her place, she reminded herself. "I grew up in Salzburg. I think our conversation lasted as long as it did because of our mutual love of the Untersberg."

He huffed a soft laugh. "So what lured you away from them?" Then, before she could answer, added almost apologetically, "if you didn't tell me already."

She had, but she was happy to oblige. Maria had not forgotten that she had enjoyed talking to Captain Von Trapp. Sure, the Captain might have been drunk, churlish and petulant by turns – although she wasn't sure if that was the alcohol or just him – but he'd spoken to her in Austrian German. He'd let her bask in the one thing she'd never thought she'd do again – have a pleasant conversation with someone from home.

Plus, being seen with the Captain kept the other men at bay, and Stavros should be happy that she was keeping _someone _entertained.

"It was a job, I suppose," she answered lightly, now.

And she found him looking at her the same way she'd looked at him the night before, trying to place her – wondering what sort of vocation would have fit a girl like her.

"I worked as a governess."

The questioning glance vanished as his eyebrows furrowed. Trying to imagine her in any position so dignified as a governess, Maria supposed. If only he knew what sort of life she'd lead _before_. But, "go on," was all he said.

She shrugged. "There's not much. I was sent on contract to a widower who wanted a governess for his son, Johannes. It was only to be for the summer he was in Vienna – but, well, he really needed someone to care for his son, I suppose. He was a land developer, and traveled quite a bit. That's how I ended up here."

Captain Von Trapp nodded, slowly. "But not as a governess."

"No." Although it was obvious, it was not an observation the Captain had followed through on yesterday. Maria wasn't in the habit of talking about herself much at all to patrons at the Siren, much less about something that still hurt so much. But she also didn't want to lie. She took a breath. "The father died… in an accident. Two years ago. The son was returned to his grandmother."

The Captain was silent for a moment. "I'm sorry," he said softly.

"Thank you," she whispered. He couldn't know all she grieved for, but Maria appreciated his heartfelt gesture all the same.

He caught her eye.

_There's not much? _

She blushed, shaking her head, the words as obvious as if he'd spoken them.

_Not much you want to talk about, you mean. _

Maria shrugged. Captain Von Trapp raised his eyebrows, but said instead, "tell me about your life in Salzburg. Before you became a governess."

She smiled. More than his condolences, she was grateful that he respected her privacy. She supposed that he too, had wounds he didn't want prodded. "Now now Captain. You're getting greedy."

He shook his head, pretending to sound hurt. "You said I told you my whole life story!"

"Yes, but I am not drunk."

He chuckled, the sound low and warm. "Touché, Fraulein."

Maria's breath caught at the sound. She'd heard it yesterday. They must have been talking for over an hour by that point, cloistered in the wood paneled booth at the back of the Siren, and strangely, she found she wasn't in a hurry for the night to end. Their banter had lightened considerably by that point. He'd ordered her a drink, choosing fruit juice with a splash of curacao and insisting the resultant shade of turquoise reminded him of her dress. They had moved from their respective prickly pasts to music and performing – the Captain, as it turned out, was himself an accomplished musician, and once even played the zither for the archduke. Then he'd regaled her with antics of the Viennese elite, painting his involvement with them in deprecating, atrocious brushstrokes that sent her giggling. The Captain was obviously an aristocrat, but Maria secretly wondered why all his stories about Vienna seemed to frequently slip from self-deprecating to self-loathing.

_She'd just finished telling him a handful of bad jokes told to her by drunken men – men who could hardly string two words together, much less a joke about a sea gull and a bay gull – when the Captain ordered another scotch. _

"_You're drinking the wrong drink, Captain," she told him, eyeing the tumbler of amber liquid pooling between glistening rocks of ice.  
_

"_Excuse me?" _

"_Whiskey isn't a hot climate drink." _

"_Says who, Fraulein Maria?" _

"_Says everyone in Milos in the summer. Here, you should try this one…"_

"_I'll have one if you have one." _

_She laughed, shaking her head, and ordered him an Ouzito - a strong anise-based liquor mixed with a splash of lemon and mint, and a generous sprinkle of sugar. The Captain frowned at the little circle of lime garnished on the lip of his glass. He made a face as it tried it, whether at the overwhelming taste of licorice or the sweetness of the concoction, she couldn't tell. _

_He replaced the glass on the table with a frown. "People drink this infernal thing?" _

_In answer, she'd pulled his glass toward her, and sipped from it. When she finished, ice cubes tinkling together at the bottom, she looked up to find him staring at her. _

Oh goodness, Maria thought now, flushing at the memory. She had finished his drink. Could that count as – how had he put it? Untoward? But it hadn't ended there. Immediately after that, she'd ordered something else for him.

_His eyebrows travelled up his forehead as he took a tentative sip. _

"_Maria." His eyes sought hers in disbelief. "Did you or did you not just order me a water?" _

"_Yes, Captain." _

_He stared at her again for another moment, then chuckled suddenly, a low helpless sound. "You Fraulein, are _trouble."

The words had been a drunker purr. Maria had been called trouble in the past, frequently at that, but never did she imagine that being called trouble in _this _tone could send a curious shiver that shot all the way to her toes. Surely _that _counted as untoward?

Maria gave herself a shake, offering the Captain another smile. She could tell that something about her body language had changed, for the way he looked at her seemed to change – a deeper, more thorough gaze. Even his eyes seemed to darken.

She was saved from having to redirect this rather dangerous path she could see they were barreling toward by Stavros' shout of delight as he descended upon them. He had a habit of making rounds around the room to see how the customers fared.

"Captain! Happy to see you choose us again!" His words were a tumble of Greek and German. "How did you find the entertainment tonight?"

Captain Von Trapp had pulled away, turning toward the owner with a polite nod. "Very nice," he managed to acquiesce in basic Greek, lips twitching as he met her eyes.

"Maria," Stavros turned to her, "for Pete's sake make this poor man a drink!"

"He hasn't told me what he wanted," she returned, too used to working with her employer to be perturbed. He was a little unruly, but his heart was in the right place… most of the time.

"A drink on the house, Captain?"

Captain Von Trapp shook his head, indicating his glass of water.

"Very fine, you must have come for the company!" The owner's voice was a triumphant crow, and there was no mistaking the obvious glance he sent in her way.

Oh for the love of all that is holy, Maria groaned inwardly, staring blandly back at him.

The Captain looked as though he were having some trouble following the Greek, looking between the two of them with a frown.

"Treat her well – Maria is one of my best, and I want her back." _After you're done with her_. She flushed.

Captain Von Trapp's eyes had narrowed in understanding, but instead of laughing along with Stavros' crude humour as most men did, she noticed his hands had clenched in anger.

_Diffuse, diffuse, diffuse. _

"Stavros!" She lay a hand delicately on the Captain's arm, taking a small step in between them. "You know gentlemen never kiss and tell! Go work your charms somewhere else."

"Very fine, very fine!" He accepted her nudging. "You enjoy yourselves!" He saluted them, moving on to the table behind them who greeted him with raised mugs.

Maria turned back to the Captain, who was still standing rigidly against the counter, eyes points of hard granite.

"Sorry," she murmured, giving his arm a small awkward squeeze to draw his attention. The Captain, she sensed, had a tightly leashed violence about him, and she wondered what it would take for it to snap.

"Fraulein – why are _you_…" He took a deep breath. "That scoundrel is a – "

"He doesn't mean any harm," Maria interrupted. "Truly, Captain. It's just the way he talks. I think the sailors rub off on him."

His glower was clear disagreement with her assessment, but he took a long, slow sip of water. To buy him time, Maria fetched herself a glass of water, too. When he finally sighed, the sound was heavy and troubled. He met her gaze, looking drained. Haunted. "Yesterday… did I do anything that hurt you?"

"No – no!" She hastened. Throughout the night, he had made no move to touch her. Had not suggested anything that could be misconstrued as an innuendo. He might have been intoxicated, but still he had been a gentleman. She tried to tell him as much, and that she'd appreciated it.

"We left together, didn't we?"

They had. And the night had… unfurled from there, but it wasn't what he was thinking, didn't happen the way he seemed to have reconstructed in his mind.

It had started innocently enough – a good-natured argument. He insisted he walk her home, worried about her safety. Maria had protested, arguing if anything, she should be walking _him_ back, for he might just walk straight off the pier in his state. It wouldn't be the first time.

Perhaps, Maria allowed, there had been some reluctance there, on both their parts, to part ways.

They had left the Siren together, their pace leisurely. The Captain held his liquor remarkably well, his erect posture and measured strides giving no indication he'd been drinking at all.

Maria's apartment was up on the hill, and his boat was down by the water. They'd never reached an agreement on who was walking whom, but somehow, both started down the path as though drawn by the easy lull of waves splashing in the night. The Captain had given her a sidelong glance and a small sheepish smile of surrender. The air had been cool, the cicadas loud. The low, whitewashed buildings along the road gleamed with moonlight. The walk had felt too short – before she knew it they were standing together on the pier, admiring his yacht, a beautiful sleek shape that seemed to glow in the darkness.

And then they were turning to each other.

And then – oh, she couldn't remember what happened – she'd had a drink or two, but she definitely wasn't drunk. Yet she'd felt as though she were spinning, felt the world spiraling away from her, felt the steadfastness in his eyes like an anchor in the night.

And then he was kissing her, or she was kissing him. His lips were soft against hers, his hand coming to rest at the nape of her neck in the slightest of pressures.

Maria had been kissed before – forgettable kisses as a girl in Salzburg, perfunctory kisses once or twice before she came to the island, drunken kisses when she couldn't extract herself fast enough from the situation…

But this… this couldn't be kissing. This was the heat of fire and the crash of ten-foot waves that swept the ground from under her feet.

And she realized she didn't want to redirect this. Didn't want the night to end. Didn't want to say farewell, for good. She trembled against him.

And then he was stepping away from her. He took her in, his eyes tortured, regretful. "Goodnight, Maria." The words were a hoarse whisper in the night.

And she couldn't remember which of them had fled first.

Maria looked up to find Captain Von Trapp watching her, as though he had seen what she was seeing. Had he also felt what she had felt?

"Um – " She started, the words an awkward tumble, unsure if she was rejoining a conversation or a thought, "last night – "

"I remember that bit," he told her quietly, his voice a hard edge. "I'm sorry."

Maria stopped. Captain Von Trapp had only seen the darkness, but none of the light. He hadn't felt what she had, after all. "Don't worry about it, Captain," she said, with a smile to match her dancer's outfit. "It was nothing."

* * *

A/N (again): Thank you so much for continuing this adventure with me, and all the lovely, thoughtful reviews for the last chapter!

I am having a ton of fun writing this story - it wasn't until I started that I realized how much I needed a change from Salzburg! And I'm having *particular fun* writing this version of Maria (I think I needed a change for her, too!)

I will be out of the country for the next few weeks, so please bear with me and my slow updates. xx


	3. The House on the Hill

A/N (1): Trigger warning - theme of assault.

Disclaimers to follow at the end (if any part of the chapter looks familiar... ;)

* * *

The House on the Hill

Maria stepped from the back door of the Siren into the night. It took her eyes a few minutes to adjust to the sudden darkness. She paused on the doorstep, her lungs happy to be outdoors – she'd never fully gotten used to the smoky air in the bar, a heaviness that seemed to stick on every breath, that clung in an unwelcome way to her hair and her clothes. The night seemed darker than usual. Patchy clouds had rolled in, obscuring the moon that usually threw the rocky island landscape into bright relief.

When she could see again, Maria readjusted the shoulder strap of her satchel and started toward home. She had finished exceptionally early today – it was only a little after midnight. As a performer, she wasn't required to stay on until closing or even until last call. In fact, many of her coworkers frequently left much earlier, jaunting into the night on the arms of charmed sailors. Stavros often let her leave a bit earlier, too. Tonight, he'd especially caught her glance from across the room, where she'd been working behind the bar, inclining his head toward the exit and mouthing that he'd see her tomorrow. He must have been having an extraordinarily good night – perhaps he was happy that she'd roped the Captain for two straight evenings, and reeled him in a small fortune.

_It was nothing. _

Yesterday had meant nothing. Tonight had meant nothing. All of their talking. That kiss. It was all nothing. Just another forgettable _chaste _tryst between a captain and a barmaid.

It had been the right thing to say – it had to be said, really. But it felt painful even as she'd said it, and it seemed to have hurt him. He'd frowned, and become nearly silent. Their conversation had petered out, their remaining casual exchanges forced and awkward. She'd gone back to serving others. The clamour for drinks and attention from the Siren's other patrons was almost a relief, and Maria avoided the brooding presence that was Captain Von Trapp for the rest of the night.

She'd snuck glances at him. He stayed at the bar, drinking sparingly but tipping generously. He flirted with other women. She didn't want to look at him, and she got the impression that he was dodging her too, because in the few times their gazes did meet, neither seemed able to look away. Maria was glad he hadn't tipped her, although technically she had, in a sense, been providing a service. It would have cheapened it, though she had no idea why she clung to the notion that it had, after all, been _something_.

Maria walked up the road, up the hill, the path changing from paved to pebbled. Since Milos was a volcanic island and Adamas its only port, every direction leading away from it was uphill. She loved that her apartment was nearly at the top – and from there she had a view looking out over the sea – but it made for a long trek. She felt exhausted from the night's work, and wrung out from her encounter with Captain Von Trapp. He had been right – she was infinitely more drained as a dancer than when she was the filler. She welcomed the lack of attention, the fact that she didn't need to engage with anyone. Although she was on stage, she could perform without having to put on a show, could play whatever she wanted without anyone noticing. Apart from the Captain.

He'd caught her playing Edelweiss, which she did from time to time. Last evening's rendition had been... troubled. She'd been grieving, picking her way through the music as she let her heart lead, through shadows and memories she usually kept separate from her day-to-day life.

_I've always been able to lose myself in the music_, she'd told him. But music, now, was just as frequently a source of sorrow and pain… and _loss_, as it was an escape.

Was that something she could have discussed with him? Captain Von Trapp knew something about loss – that much was clear. He'd looked at her like he understood, _heard _her like he understood. Perhaps she could have, Maria mused, but now she supposed she'd never know. She'd go home, and he'd sail out tomorrow – no one passing by ever stayed in Milos for more than a day or two.

She was lost in thought, when she suddenly became aware of raucous laughter and talking. For a second she thought she was still at the Siren, although she was far enough that all noises from the bar and town itself should have faded. Maria slowed, looking around. The main road was deserted – there was no one ahead or behind her. But just a ways down, there was a fork where a small path led up from the beach and opened onto the road. And Maria could see two sailors making their way up, moving in her direction. One of them waved when they saw her looking.

Maria felt her head spin in a moment's panic. Milos was safe. Drunken men were not. They didn't look very steady on their feet, but their intention was clear enough. She had passed the fork only minutes ago, and hadn't seen anyone, though she hadn't been paying attention. She guessed they'd been out along the beach or the docks, but had changed course when they saw her.

Heart pounding, Maria walked faster, as fast as she could without breaking into a run, ignoring the calls that she was still thankfully too far away to make out. The tactic had worked more than once for drunken men trying to tail her.

But they had sped up, too. "What's the rush?" Maria could hear the words now. Not quite jeers, but cajoling. "You're worked clean off your feet – don't you want to have some fun at last?"

She kept walking. "You do make good drinks – I wonder what else you're good at."

The calling made her sick. If she ran, her landlord Alex who lived just below her apartments would help her. But she could never make it back to her apartment before these men. She could try, she could keep walking, but she couldn't defend herself with her back to them.

Maria made herself stop, whirling in a sudden movement to face her assailants. She sent a quick prayer to God, although she doubted even he could help her now.

The two men slowed, approaching from either side. They were quieting down, like they didn't want to scare her off. But it was an ambush, and Maria knew it. She forced herself not to shrink back, biting the inside of her cheeks to keep her teeth from chattering. They stopped several feet away, and she recognized them. She'd been at their table as she mingled with the patrons after the dancing. They'd been decent enough – easy to entertain and happy to accept her drinks. But they'd been crude even then, making bawdy jokes, and the sailor with the blonde hair now leering from her right had tried to pull her into him.

"Honey, cheer up," he was saying now. But Maria could see that the flirtatious gaze he'd pined her with earlier in the evening had now been replaced by something darker. "We saw that old rake you were with all evening, who wouldn't let you go."

He chuckled, and his companion chimed in. "Trust us, them old dogs might have money but they haven't got the goods… if you know what I mean."

Despite her fear, Maria felt a spark of anger. These drunks had _no _idea who they were talking about. She felt warm. Good. She would need anger on her side.

"_Gentlemen_." Her voice was loud. Clear. Confident. Didn't betray the irony of that word. "It's late. Please leave me alone."

"That dress doesn't do much for you. You looked better in red." The blond sailor stepped slowly toward her.

"Come down to our boat, sweetheart." The other sailor was advancing, too. "We can show you a good time."

"Leave me alone!" Maria steeled herself as Blond sidled next to her. He slid an arm around her waist, then the other, pinning her against his chest.

And then she screamed. Louder. Then her screams formed words. FIRE. HELP. FIRE.

Maria stomped down along the arch of his foot. He grunted, but held on to her. Her elbows were pinned at her sides, but her hands were free. She pinched the inside of his upper thigh. Hard. He let go with a cry of pain.

Maria bolted, dodging his companion, adrenaline giving her wings.

She ran in the direction of town, screaming. HELP. FIRE.

There was a chance someone was still awake. If she could get back to the Siren, Stavros would help her.

Running in blind terror, she almost collided into a solid presence in the middle of the road. No – judging by the skidding of pebbles and the way strong arms gripped her before she could fall, swinging her around with a momentum that caused her to cry out – someone had been running up the road. Running up to her. Someone had heard her cry for help.

Maria could have sobbed in relief. The person – a man – had shoved her behind him, not even looking back, and was advancing on her assailants. She could hear the scuffling as they approached.

She wanted to collapse to her knees. Her lungs were on fire. But she made herself look.

That white shirt. That dark hair. That predatory stalk.

Her mind was slow to react, even as she heard the shouts and jeering from the drunken sailors.

Then, in German. "I should kill you."

And, like a film in slow motion, as her mind caught up, Maria watched as Captain Von Trapp punched her blond attacker square in the face.

The man fell back with a cry, and his companion swore and closed in. They were both shouting insults. But they didn't stand a chance.

Maria watched in undulated fear and horror as the men swarmed him, and the Captain pounced. He struck with his leg, kneeing the blond sailor in the gut, while simultaneously blocking a punch from the other. As Blond stumbled forward, the Captain delivered a solid punch to his jaw. He went down, and stayed there.

Captain Von Trapp twisted around to the other man with a growl, and Maria caught a glimpse of his face. His expression was stone, his eyes blazing fire. An avenging sea god.

Maria had seen bar fights at the Siren. Drunken brawls were raucous, loud and messy. But this – this was different. Swift, ruthless, executed with military precision.

The other sailor landed a punch against the Captain's shoulder, but before he could pull back, Captain Von Trapp had grabbed hold of his arm, propelling him forward, driving his fist right between his shoulder blades. The man fell, rolling away. He darted backward as he stood, keeping his downed companion between himself and the Captain.

Captain Von Trapp paused, breathing heavily. He took a step forward, hands balled into fists, and the other man fell back another step. There was fear in his dark eyes. They'd been men – drunken, cowardly men taking advantage of a lone woman under the cover of darkness – but beside the Captain, they were boys.

"Go." The sound was a harsh bark in the night. The Captain jerked his head toward Blond, still unconscious on the ground. "Take him with you." The man nodded wordlessly.

"If your goddamned boat is still in Milos by morning…" The Captain took one final step forward, his voice dropping to a growl, "I will personally make sure your filthy hands are removed, and then other precious parts will follow, you miserable excuse for a man."

And then he turned away. Towards Maria. His hands relaxed at his sides.

She didn't see what happened to the other men. Didn't see how the drunkard managed to get his unconscious companion away from Captain Von Trapp.

She could only stare at him. He stared back.

Then she drew a shuddering breath, remembering how to breathe.

"_Georg_."

* * *

It had been a long time since Georg Von Trapp saw red.

It came on with gale-like force, uncontrolled like spreading wildfire. An icy rage gripped him, even as hot blood thrummed through his body. His senses tunneled. He saw nothing but the two men trying to force themselves on her, heard nothing but her scream in his ears. He would _destroy _them.

But it was over before it began, really. The two boys were bumbling idiots, and they were drunk. Georg sent them packing before he did them any lasting damage. He'd lived enough war not to want anyone else's life on his hands.

And then, there was only silence. And her.

And she was stumbling towards him, staggering into him, her small hands finding his arms in a vice-like grip. In the same frantic, urgent way, he reached for her, hands tumbling over her hair, her face, her shoulders, leaving a smear of blood against her cheek.

The need for reassurance, for confirmation. The need to know it was over, and they were alright. He'd seen it often during the war, lovers finding each other on and off the battlefield. In the moment they clung together, Georg forgot they hardly knew each other, forgot their acquaintance before now had been limited to one drunken conversation and one very unsatisfactory farewell.

It could have been seconds, it could have been hours. When the moment finally passed, the young Fraulein pushed away from him, holding him at arms length, looking him over. The hysterical look in her eyes had cleared, but she looked pale, eyes wary.

Georg didn't ask if she was okay. He knew she wasn't; knew it would take time for her to process what had happened, to feel any measure of safety. Was this the first time? Georg wondered with no small measure of guilt. He'd as good as pushed her back toward the other men at the Siren. He'd left alone, let _her_ leave alone, even after he'd felt the subtle change in the atmosphere at the bar, as the crowd became more drunk, less restrained, more sinister… Goddamnit! He was a coward.

"You're bleeding." Her voice was hoarse from screaming.

Georg looked at his hands for the first time. There were flecks of red against his skin and a trickle of blood from one of his knuckles. He shook his head. "It's fine. It's more their blood than mine."

She mirrored his headshake. "I live that way." She lifted her chin in the direction up the road. "We should get you cleaned up."

He suspected she needed the company more than he did cleaning up, but Georg found he wasn't ready to return to his boat alone, either. Their earlier encounter had felt unfinished, and now he was left with uneasy concerns and more questions.

They walked beside each other in silence. The path wound up the hill, and Georg could almost feel the air becoming fresher. A collection of squat, white buildings came into view as they rounded a corner, nothing more than three or four clusters branching from the main road, the houses fanning against the hill as though they'd broken free from the town below and were straining to reach the peak. Fraulein Maria led him along the road, turning down a narrow cobblestone pathway before stopping at a flight of stairs. Georg had noticed that feature earlier down in the port, the way external stairs led to most of the upper stories. The stairs opened onto a large stone patio, with several doors lining the wall. He waited as Maria silently unlocked one of the doors, and followed her through the arched doorway into her apartment.

The room was small, but bright as Maria turned on the light. Georg blinked, not used to being surrounded by brilliant white stone, which made the place seem both bigger yet more confined. It was sparsely furnished. There was a small kitchenette in the corner with opening shelving, with a couch and table and chair set taking up the rest of the room. There was a single door at the far end of the room, which he supposed led to the bedroom.

"I'll get my first aid kit," Maria mumbled, walking toward the door without looking at him. She didn't wait for him, didn't offer him a seat, and he had the sense she desperately needed a moment alone to collect herself.

Georg sat down in one of the wooden chairs at the table. It'd been years since he'd been inside a woman's home. No – not that long. He'd last been at Elsa Schraeder's luxury penthouse not even two years ago. But it had felt different. She'd had an interior designer and art collector who'd managed the space, who frequently swapped decor to keep with the latest trends. She spent most of her time entertaining in the parlour, and he couldn't remember her ever cooking in her state of the art kitchen. Despite being well acquainted with it, Georg never truly had the sense that Elsa's house was a home – which at the time suited him just fine.

He'd forgotten the feminine touches. A floral tea set. A single flower in a brightly coloured vase. Pastel patterned tea towels. Tasseled cushions. The entire effect was soft, intimate, womanly…

It affected him strangely, and he tensed as Fraulein Maria walked back into the room. She had changed into a simple brown dress, and bound her hair in a kerchief the way country girls did back home. She placed a rectangular plastic box on the table, and opened it to reveal a mess of first aid things – jars of ointments, rolls of gauze, bandages, and several small bottles of pills that he assumed were painkillers. It was a very complete kit, he supposed, and he wondered uneasily if Maria hurt herself so often – or _was _hurt so often – that she needed such a kit.

She went to fetch a small bowl of water, adding it to the table. Georg watched at she stood at his side, and started to free a roll of gauze. She was quiet – she'd hardly spoken more than a handful of words to him since they'd started walking, and even then, her voice had sounded hollow – and didn't meet his eyes.

"Wait," he said suddenly, lightly gripping her wrist to catch her attention. If she wasn't okay, then he should talk to her, instead of letting her busy herself with his wound and burying her thoughts. In the military, it would have been called debriefing.

She started, freezing at the touch. "Yes, Captain?"

He quickly withdrew his hand. "How about some tea, first?" He nodded toward her turquoise tea-kettle on the small stove.

"Umm… alright." Maria looked taken aback for a moment, but then retreated toward her kitchenette. Her hands shook as she filled the kettle. Georg didn't offer to help. Sometimes, keeping the hands busy was better at settling the mind than talking.

Sure enough, by the time Maria poured the water, her hands were steady. "How do you take your tea, Captain?" She turned to him, seeming more animated, and her voice was back to how he remembered it.

"Err…" Georg wasn't a tea drinker, but it seemed absurd to say so when he was the one who'd suggested it. "With honey, please."

She brought two cups to the table, and slid into the chair across from him. Silently, she took a sip, then wrapped her hands around the cup. As he reached for his own saucer, he realized his hand was throbbing. He ignored it as she asked quietly, "how did you find me?"

Georg sipped at his tea. "I was down along the beach. Umm – walking." He'd been pacing the length along the water, and he'd been doing it since he left the Siren, feeling inexplicably agitated as his mind kept returning to the problem that was… Fraulein Maria. He cleared his throat. "There were a few other sailors hanging around by the water, and I noticed when a few of them took off."

Maria cocked her head. "You followed them?"

He shook his head. If he'd had the sense to follow them, he'd have had the sense not to have left her alone. "I heard screaming a few minutes later. I heard you."

The little colour in her face drained. Georg continued gently. "Once I heard you, I put the two and two together and ran up that path by the beach. But you were screaming 'fire'."

Not that it mattered what she'd been shouting – he would have responded to that terror in her voice regardless, but it left him a little curious.

The remark ended up being the right thing to say. Maria's expression brightened a little, and she gave him a small smile. "Someone told me once that if I were ever in danger, screaming _fire_ was the most effective way to draw attention. Not everyone will help out of the goodness of their hearts, but everyone is afraid of spreading fire."

The reasoning surprised a swift chuckle from him. He'd never thought about it – never had reason to. But he was lucky. He was a strong, able-bodied man. He'd had years of military training. He'd never had to think about self-defense. But as a girl…

The thought caused his chest to clench painfully. In tenderness. In agony. In despair.

"Thank you," Maria was saying now, shaking him out of his thoughts. "For saving me."

Georg cleared his throat, still shaken. "You looked like you were doing just fine on your own, to be honest." His words were rewarded with another impish smile. "Who taught you all of that?"

All that self-defense he theoretically did know – the delicate part of the foot, the sensitive inner thigh… making use of your elbows, going for the groin – all the knowledge he should have but never thought to impart, never occurred to him would be crucial information. Was it too late, now?

Maria was answering him. "A – a lady I used to live with, before I left to become a governess. She shared it with me in secret, when she learned I was going away. About screaming 'fire', about how to get away. I had led a very… sheltered sort of life, you see. I didn't know much about – " she waved her hands in an encompassing gesture, " – the world. I was shocked – we didn't learn… was discouraged from thinking about… um, violence and those kinds of things..." Georg had the impression Maria was skating over parts of her past, but let her continue. "She told me there was no predicting who I'd come up against and it was better to be prepared." She shook her head in a disbelieving way and laughed. "If I ever see her again, I'm going to kiss the floor! She was so right!"

Georg raised his eyebrows at the strange idea of Maria kissing the floor, but let it go. It must have been some sort of inside joke from her past. "Have you ever had to use it before?" He asked instead.

"Once. But the man was so drunk he probably would have fallen over on his own."

He didn't know whether to feel relieved that no one had assaulted her before now, or alarmed that she was speaking so matter-of-factly about it, as though she expected such things to happen. What a dangerous sort of life she led! Putting herself in harm's way night after night, living alone on an island in the middle of nowhere. Did she have family who knew where she was? People who cared, people who would know if anything happened to her?

The worry and inexplicable fury must have shown on his face, for suddenly she was backpedaling. She had a tendency to do that, he noticed, a keen sense for picking up and warding off hostile situations. It must come with the job.

"Milos is actually very safe," she was insisting. "You don't need to worry about me."

"Safe!" Georg didn't know if he wanted to roll his eyes or shake her. "You were jumped tonight! Who knows what would have happened if – " _if I hadn't been there. _

"I would have made it back to the Siren and called Stavros," Maria said calmly.

"You do this every night! If anything were to happen to you on these roads, no one would even know!"

"I'm very careful when I walk. I pay attention." She coloured, the pink flush of her cheeks spreading to her neck. "Usually, anyway. I was… distracted, tonight." She looked away.

Georg took a deep breath, biting his tongue. It wasn't his place to chastise her, to tell this grown woman how to live her life – she wasn't his wife, wasn't his sister, wasn't his daughter. He wasn't anything to her.

As though she'd read his mind, Maria conceded quietly, "this night could have ended badly, I know."

Georg remained silent, wavering between words of comfort and wanting to drive home his point – that one day, it still might end badly.

"Thank you again, Captain. I don't want you to think I'm not grateful for what you did. I really am." She looked at him with huge eyes, sincere and solemn. "Truly, you saved me… my, erhm…"

She cut off abruptly, like she'd said something wrong, flushing even brighter and mumbling something unintelligible. She gestured vaguely again, toward herself. Georg looked on, bewildered, until suddenly it clicked, and he nearly choked on his tea.

"What?!"

"What?" Maria was crimson.

If Georg hadn't been so shocked, he would have laughed at how absurd they sounded.

"No – nothing!" He insisted, not wanting to offend. "I'm just surprised, that's all. I wouldn't have thought… I didn't expect – well… you work as a showgirl at the Siren!"

Georg winced immediately. That was not how he wanted to say it at all. He knew she was still young, had sensed she was more naïve than she let on… but a virgin? Working as a dancer and a barmaid in a seedy port bar? That made the entire predicament even worse! At least he had the sense not to say that part out loud.

He expected an angry retort. He'd deserved it, the assumptions he made – and _voiced _– about her virtue. He'd been an ass. But instead, Maria burst into laughter, ducking her head in an endearingly demure gesture. Her eyes twinkled wickedly as she peeked at him. "I'm sorry, Captain – I suppose I should have found a job at the Maiden Voyage, shouldn't I?"

He gave a bark of surprised laughter, which melted into a chuckle. She was fearless, and it astounded him most of all that she could find a reason to laugh in a moment like this. "Maria – I'm sorry…" He shrugged helplessly, a smile still tugging on his lips. She'd disarmed him, entirely.

Maria shrugged, standing up from the table and coming around to him. "You're not acting at all like a sea captain," she told him, her voice still playful, "to be so easily flustered."

It was true, Georg thought belatedly, how affected he'd been by her revelation. Her innocence should be of no concern to him at all.

Maria rummaged through her first aid kit, and then dropped to her knees at his side with a heap of gauze. "Let me see your hand."

Her hands were gentle as she began sponging blood off his arm. He leaned into the chair, watching her head tilt this way and that. More than once she paused to blow the tendrils of hair that'd escaped the kerchief off her face, a girlish gesture that contrasted strangely with the tenderness of her hands. It was a new side of her he was seeing, and he was fascinated all the more. "And you are nothing like anything I expected to find here." He spoke aloud without even thinking.

"And what were you looking to find?" She wasn't looking at him. She'd asked it mildly, offering him to answer however he wished.

"Oh, nothing. Or everything," he mused. "Something new. Or perhaps just pretending to be madly active. Activity suggests a life filled with purpose."

She glanced at him, astute as ever. "Could it be running from memories, Captain?"

He chuckled, a small, hollow sound. No – he wasn't running from memories. Not at all. He almost wished it were still just that.

"I thought you were calling me Georg," he said instead.

"Only in life-threatening situations", she said easily.

He blinked, feeling oddly like he was being rejected and trying not to look affronted. He reminded himself that drawing boundaries was her specialty.

Maria's fingers passed over a spot just below his outer knuckle, and white-hot pain shot up his arm. He muffled a yelp, and would have jerked his hand back if she hadn't been holding on to it.

She dropped her gauze and looked at him with wide eyes. "I'm sorry, did I – "

Georg shook his head, pulling his hand back to take a closer look. It looked normal, now that Maria had cleaned off the blood, if only mildly swollen. The spot she'd touched was throbbing again, radiating from the knuckle of his little finger. He prodded the area, and gave a grunt of pain. "Broken," he ground out, hand smarting.

"Broken?!" Maria looked anxiously at him.

"See here?" Georg stretched out his arm to show her the back of his hand, pointing out the fifth knuckle. "Boxer's fracture." He had had this particular sort of fracture before, in his brash youth, and had seen it countless times in the military when pissing contests between his men disintegrated into over-enthusiastic scuffles and fist fights.

"Not the end of the world," he told Maria, who was still staring at him with a worried frown. "We'll just bind these two fingers together, like this – " he pantomimed the action, " – wrap the hand up, and it'll be fine in a few weeks."

He could see Maria taking a breath. "Okay," she said gamely, and set to work following his instructions. Georg could tell she'd never done it before – it took her several tries to wrap the gauze around his fingers, head bowed over his arm, the top of her forehead wrinkled in concentration. He sat silently, patiently waiting as she figured it out.

He found himself oddly affected by the image – sitting in a worn kitchen chair, this young woman kneeling before him, bathed in warm light, her fingers gentle and coaxing against his hand. Georg felt a peculiar sense of buoyancy creep over him, like something within slowly unfurling, like a fist unclenching, like a flower opening into the sun.

And then, like a shellfish sensing danger, he felt himself tense reflexively. Maria must have noticed, for he heard her inhale as she looked up again. "Does that hurt?"

"No," he managed. The word came out more as a gasp.

She went back to bandaging his hand. All was quiet, but something had shifted. Surely she felt it too, for after a few moments she asked in a whisper, "what happened to your wife?" Her head remained bent over his hand.

"She died," he told her, and there was no bitterness in his voice. "Of scarlet fever. Seven years ago this coming fall."

Her fingers paused, lingering above his. "Oh. I'm sorry."

"Yes."

They lapsed into silence – an underscored, intimate sort of silence, the spell that'd been woven between them cocooning them in a world of their own.

"Was her name Brigitta?" Maria asked at last, reaching for the tape to bind his bandages.

He blinked in surprise. "No. Her name was Agathe."

"Oh!" Maria finished up, and rocked back on her heels to look at him. "It's just that yesterday I noticed… well, your yacht is named The Brigitta, and I assumed…"

Georg nodded in understanding. It wouldn't be the first time someone had made that mistake, but he seldom bothered to correct them. "The tradition of naming ships after women is well known," he concurred.

"Oh," she said again, and looked perplexed. "So is your boat named after… your mother?"

He had to laugh. "No, it is not. _Her _name was Hedwig. And before you ask, it's not named after my sister, or my aunt, or my housekeeper." Their eyes met, and he sighed at the earnestness in her face. "Brigitta is my daughter's name."

He watched as her eyes widened and her mouth made a perfect, comical 'o' of shock. "Oh!" Maria gasped, and her hands flew to her face, embarrassed by her outburst. "It's just - you don't look at _all _like a… I mean, you haven't said a _word _about…" She had turned bright red again, a look he found he wasn't at all sorry to elicit. "I just didn't expect you to have a daughter, that's all," Maria finished feebly.

"I have five."

"Five!"

"And two sons."

"_Seven _children?"

"Yes, well, my wife and I were married _quite_ some time. Eleven years, in fact. My children now range from seven to eighteen." Georg had not once spoken of his children these past couple years – not since he and Elsa Schraeder had broken off their engagement and he'd left Austria. As though if left well alone, everything he'd known and held dear would vanish behind vines and bracken like the long-lost castles of his daughters' beloved fairytales. And now that'd Maria had stumbled upon his ramshackle past with her innocent question, Georg found himself flinging the facts at her, almost petulantly as though to say _so there_, _now you know_. It was shameful, really, but also a little bit cathartic.

"So why did you choose to name your boat after Brigitta?" Maria asked inquisitively. He could tell by her face she'd processed and accepted the new information about him, mastering her shock admirably. She stood to take her teacup to the sink.

"Brigitta was the only one whose birth I wasn't able to attend," Georg answered. "I received leaves from the military for my first three, and with Kurt I just happened to be home at the time." He ticked off his fingers as he went through the children. "And I had already retired when the two littlest arrived."

Maria nodded along, and Georg felt strangely deflated, like he was playing a one-sided tennis match. He wanted her to hit back. He wanted to put the shots just outside her reach, to throw her off balance. He didn't know why he was goading her, what kind of rise he was hoping to get out of her.

"After Brigitta was born, I sent for Agathe to bring her to meet me in a new boat, which we later christened in her name," he finished. He stood too, picking up his own cup with his good hand.

Maria leaned against the counter, looking thoughtful, watching as he added his cup to hers. "And your children, when you are sailing?"

He tried to keep his voice light. "They attend boarding school during the year."

His admission hung in the air between them; the inevitable blow, the winning shot, the moment the magical transformation was revealed and the young beauty found herself staring into the eyes of a beast.

For a moment he heard her cry of outrage, but then realized he had imagined it.

Maria only nodded again, slowly. "How often do you see them?"

"One or two weeks a year, at the end of each semester."

"They must miss you very much," she said, voice wistful.

Georg felt compelled to explain, certain she hadn't understood the story. "After Agathe died, I hired a series of governesses to help with the children." He did not tell her that he expected the governesses to _raise_ the children, while he, well… but Maria gave him a swift look that seemed to see through it. He fumbled. "Anyways, well, it's been difficult as you can imagine, with the seven of them. None of the governesses stayed. The twelfth and last governess I hired fled in the middle of the night claiming the house was haunted. And she was a nun from the Abbey! Imagine that nonsense!"

Maria's hands had flown to her mouth, although he couldn't figure out which part of that had shocked her.

"If a battle-axe of a nun from Nonnberg couldn't even manage them…Well, the children have done very well at boarding school. The director is very pleased with their progress." He paused. "I've been very happy with the arrangements."

Georg had lost track if he was trying to justify or condemn himself.

"Happy?" Maria echoed. Her tone was more bewildered than accusatory, but Georg again found himself on the defensive, feeling anger simmer beneath his words.

"It's for the best," he all but spit out. "When you are a widower with seven children… The options are limited."

Maria seemed to accept this, giving a small shrug of acquiescence. Now, he watched her as she turned on the tap and gave the teacups a rinse. There was disquiet even in the silence – the eye of the storm.

"Many widowers marry again," she remarked, as she finished with the cups.

The space between them went taunt. Georg froze as she added, her tone entirely conversational, "then the children would have a mother again."

The storm hit like a whirlwind, sucking the air from the room. Hurling debris, deafening, blinding, everything fracturing the way his life had when he'd agreed to the very thing she was suggesting. From there, it had all unraveled.

Maria took a step back, sensing the threat.

"And who, pray tell, would want to marry a man with seven children?" His voice seemed to stalk her, low and dangerous. He took a step forward. The distance between them closed. She stood very still. His words punctured the room, the fangs of a predator poised to strike. "Who, in their right mind, would want to marry a man like me?"

_For who could ever learn to love a beast? _

"Look at me." Even though she already was. Before he knew what he was doing, he'd brought his good hand up to her face, tracing her cheek, her jaw, gripping her chin. She stared at him, frozen, eyes wide with shock… and fear, hardly daring to breathe. They were so close he could feel the warm swirls of her shallow breaths. "Would you?" It could have been a purr or a hiss. "Would you marry me?"

She didn't respond. Two spots of colour burned on her cheeks, and the rest of her was deathly pale. She took a trembling step backward, just enough to slide out of his grasp. Her eyes filled, but her voice was steady. "I think, Captain, the more important question is whether _you _want anybody to marry you."

Maria turned her back on him and walked away, disappearing through the door into her bedroom.

Georg came to his senses with a silent gasp, like he'd been doused in ice water. What was he _doing_, grabbing her when she'd just been assaulted? When all she was doing was trying to make conversation? When she'd offered warmth and he'd been downright terrifying. He'd lost control, he thought in disgust, and this time it wasn't even the alcohol. There was no way he was going to forget the look on her face anytime soon. And – because something about this night, and this _woman,_ was hell bent on making him _feel _– Georg was filled with a sense of shame, which only grew as long moments passed and still he stood alone.

Finally, Maria reappeared in the doorway. "I behaved badly," he rushed to say, even as she glared at him with blazing, angry eyes. "I apologize." She said nothing, and he added, hating himself for the hesitation, "I should take my leave."

"Don't be foolish, Captain." She threw the words at him. "You're hurt." She lobed a pillow she'd retrieved from her room onto the couch. "You would be better off leaving in the morning."

Maria crossed the room and placed the throw she'd been holding in her other hand onto the table – the surface furthest away from him. Then, she turned and vanished back into her room, shutting the door firmly behind her.

* * *

A/N(2): First of all, (I know I gave warning of my absence but I still feel badly about it!) apologies for this long delay between instalments! But hopefully I've redeemed myself with this loooong chapter? ;)

Disclaimers: the art of self-defence scene inspired by Sarah J Maas's "The Assassin's Blade". And of course, the fairytale (and G's self-loathing) inspired by Disney's "Beauty and the Beast". ALSO, I have to give credit to the reader who wondered in my LAST story (We Can Start From The Beginning) if G sent his kids to boarding school, and I said at the time I couldn't imagine him following through with it. Well - your comment inspired me, and now I have! Ta-da!

Thank you to everyone who is following along, and huge huge thanks and gratitude to those who took the time and left a review! LOVE hearing your thoughts. xx


	4. The Place of Rest

The Place of Rest

Georg was in Milos a week, longer than he'd ever stayed in one location these past few years. It made him restless. But he couldn't steer or sail a boat without the use of his dominant hand. While functional in its makeshift splint, it stilled throbbed ominously with overuse.

And then… there was Maria.

He needed to solve the problem that was Maria before he left the island. Even though the _real_ Maria had hardly exchanged more than a handful of words and a few convert glances since that night in her apartment, she was everywhere. She was in his thoughts constantly, and while he wouldn't admit it, Georg spent the week skulking around the Siren, where he knew she'd be. She even featured prominently in his dreams. The more he tried to put Maria from his mind, the more of a fixture she became, needled like ink under his skin. Georg had the sense that if he sailed out, she'd follow him to the ends of the earth.

Georg didn't know why his traitorous subconscious insisted they were intimately acquainted, when they barely knew each other. He didn't know why he felt such a sense of familiarity about her – felt like he understood her, and she him, when the young woman couldn't be more unlike the cranky old sailor that he was. He didn't know why he persisted in thinking of her as kindred, when their last exchange had been filled with animosity, and by all accounts she never wanted anything to do with him again.

Perhaps his subconscious had been led astray when, for the first time in his life, he'd awoken in a woman's room – albeit on the sofa – in a home that was not his own.

Georg had woken that morning after with a start. He'd thrown himself half out of bed before the blinding light of his surroundings caught up to him. It was disorienting. He didn't have a hangover, but there was a deep throbbing ache in his dominant hand. It was quiet. And there was an incredible sense of stillness he had not experienced in weeks. His legs were tangled in a soft floral throw that was definitely not his, and there was an odd, unmistakable scent of fresh pine against his pillow that reminded him of the Untersberg.

It was only then that he came to his senses, recalling that he had not returned to his boat, but stayed the night in Maria's living room. Had she stuffed her cushions with pine needles? From home? Georg blinked dazedly. The realization should have been significant. It had always been one of his unspoken rules never to stay the night if he accompanied a woman home – but when it'd come to Maria, he hadn't thought twice.

It was the same way he'd gone running for her, following her screams before he knew what was happening. The frantic embrace after the scuffle, as though he'd been afraid to lose her. The walk up to the little house on the hill, where his main motives had been to comfort, to protect.

And then there had been the long evening that followed, which he now recalled with a guilty sense of intimacy, even though they'd done nothing more than talk.

Automatically, Georg had glanced toward the door to the bedroom, but it was still closed.

For, in spite of all that – or perhaps, because of all that – he'd blown the ship entirely out of the water when he lost a hold of the vice-like control he'd kept around, well… everything.

It was disconcerting. None of it was who Georg was. He didn't notice women – not in any real sense, although women seemed to notice him, mistaking his indifference for mystery. He was a man who'd already seen too much, lived too much, and didn't care to see any more. He'd buried a wife, sent away seven children, and managed to push away everyone in Austria who tried to help him. He was a man with no currency left to invest. But then he'd run into Maria, a sometimes-guitarist-sometimes-dancer, charming, a little rough around the edges, and all had gone to hell.

Georg had once upon a time briefly seen a shrink, caving in to Max's badgering that he try grief counseling. The man had been very insistent on a technique he called 'exposure therapy', where he'd introduced little bits of stimuli about his marriage in a very roundabout way designed to minimize trauma. Georg had dismissed him as useless, and had learned to suppress what he couldn't overcome.

But Maria had barreled into all of it – how could a woman with such beguiling innocence be so challenging? – and triggered _everything_. Bits of emotion he thought he'd extinguished, memories that had all but faded, and questions, so many questions about his life he hadn't been prepared to answer. It'd… what was the term the shrink had used? It _flooded _him.

It'd been rage. Rage and helplessness and betrayal and shame, which had erupted from him before he could control it, lashing at the young woman even though she had nothing to do with any of it. Though why on earth she would suggest he marry again… well, that was beside the point.

He shouldn't have frightened her. The poor girl had been terrified.

Georg didn't feel good about it, although it no doubt put the lid firmly back on the whole matter. He really should apologize again for his outburst when she woke up, and part amicably, at least.

He had gotten up then. The apartment was so compact he could make his way from one end to the other in seven big strides. Through the solitary window by the main door, Georg could see the balcony, with its gleaming white stone and white-painted railing, and the remarkable view beyond. He couldn't blame Maria for choosing to live in an out-of-the-way apartment like this, with endless blue sky and the Aegean stretching all the way to the horizon. It was the same vast, sweeping feeling he had out on his boat, but more… restful.

He stood by the window for a long while, admiring the view with his eyes while his ears listened for noise in the room behind. But Maria was either still sleeping or not ready to come out and face him.

Finally, as the morning sun swept across the entire length of the balcony, he turned away. Perhaps it was better this way. On the small table were still scattered bits of Maria's first aid kit. Georg located a scrap of paper and scribbled a message for her with the pen he kept in his pocket. Then, he'd gone to the kitchenette to pour himself a glass of water. A carton of eggs lay on the counter. On sudden impulse, he checked the small fridge – piles of vegetables sat in neat little piles. Before he left, Georg made breakfast, the process made more tenuous by his weakened hand in its new splint. The aroma coming off the pan was so strong in the small space he couldn't imagine Maria sleeping through it all. When he was done, he carefully slid the omelet onto a plate and under a plastic cover on the table.

_I was more of a beast last night than I usually am. Forgive me. _

And then there was nothing more to do besides let himself out of the apartment. He couldn't help a small sigh as he stepped out into the bright morning light, and shut the door behind him. It locked automatically, tumblers sliding into place – more of a jolt than a sound.

More an awareness than anything else, that something had shifted.

Georg went back to the Siren every night he stayed on the island. Part of the reason was because there was nowhere else to go if he wanted a drink – and coping with his thoughts when drunk was significantly better than scrutinizing them while sober. Maria worked every night he was there, and he felt some measure of relief to see her before him, even though they largely steered clear of each other. They exchanged nods of acknowledgement, small pleasantries when their paths couldn't help but cross.

Georg drank, and thought of how he would tell Maria about the children. He thought about telling her that he missed them. How his wife with her last breath had pleaded for him to keep the children close. How sending them away had sent him spiraling toward a new depth he hadn't even known existed… how this time, not even Elsa could help him, God forsaken creature that he was. Those had been almost her exact words, and he had deserved it.

Scheibe. He should really leave her alone.

Maria seemed to have gone back to her usual self and usual routine, splitting her nights between playing the guitar and fulfilling her role as dancing girl. She was as vibrant as ever as a dancer, and as wistful as how he'd first remembered her as a guitarist. What was she using her smiling barmaid charms to hide? What unspoken story escaped through the music, when she let herself go when no one was watching? But he was watching. She must have known he was. But she paid him no heed, as though she'd already put him in her past, along with the other broken bits he knew had been filed away – so determined was she to embrace what she had. The thought didn't sit well with him.

The smug little barkeeper seemed to pick up that whatever dalliance had occurred between his dancer and the wealthy captain had ended. Instead, Stavros wasted no time parading a host of other exotic women before him. One evening there was Netta from England. The next night was Mavis and Jenny from America. Another night was Cayenne from France, whose name Georg assumed was a stage name to match her dyed red hair and feisty nature. He'd made an effort to engage with them, to let them take his mind off Maria… but at the end of the night, it was still Maria. No amount of showy skin or husky suggestions about wanting to see his yacht seemed to sway him.

Toward the end of every night, he found himself waiting. Either seated at the bar waiting for her to finish, or leaving early to pace the dock and watch for her slim figure as she left the Siren. Georg didn't _tail _her, precisely. And he only walked halfway up the hill, turning back when he was assured no one else was following her. He made sure he was far enough she never spotted him – it wouldn't do for her to know. Maria would be furious. And she would be in her right, for he was surely insane.

And then, later in the night, when Georg finally drifted to sleep… his dreams were full of Maria. And this – this was the worst of all. He'd dream of her, and the way she'd knelt before him… except she wasn't tending to his hand. Not at all. He'd wake with a start, sweat soaked and a cry on his lips, his body betraying him in the most traitorous of ways. He'd imagine her hands, her mouth, _his _hands exploring _her _curves, teaching her that the very idea of _virtue _was overrated.

It was disgraceful and appalling, the ways he made her come apart in his dreams. The irony of it wasn't lost on him. If Maria had been just another dancer, he would have no trouble acting upon any of it and having his way with her.

Everything might just have gone on that way until he was fit enough to sail out. Georg was equally masterful as she was at filing things away into his past. But one evening, Maria didn't come for her shift at the Siren.

Georg sat at his usual table – God forbid, had he become a regular? – wondering where she'd gone. Wondering why she hadn't given him any indication she'd be away. Wondering why he expected one. Georg didn't realize how dark his expression was, how many pints he'd had to drink, until he saw Stavros making his way over on his nightly rounds. For once, there were no girls draped around his arm.

"Alright there, Captain?"

Georg debated not answering at all. Wasn't it enough he was paying a small fortune for his drinks and his tips that Stavros could stop pestering him? Smarmy little man. "Yes," he ground out at last.

Stavros didn't seem to be offended. "Excellent, excellent." He leaned casually against the table. "You know, Captain," he said, switching from heavily accented German to slightly more understandable English, "I am not such a tyrant as you seem to think – I do give my employees days off, regularly, at that."

He paused significantly. Georg didn't know whether to feel relieved or furious. Smarmy intuitive little man.

"Good," he nodded finally. He'd meant to sound curt, but the word slurred against his tongue.

Stavros peered at him. "Good," he echoed. "And you know what Captain, a moussaka on the house. For your generosity." He straightened up, and barked rapid orders in Greek to a passing waiter before Georg could protest, waving off his drawn eyebrows with an infuriating grin.

After Stavros had wandered off, Georg wearily massaged the back of his neck. He couldn't go on like this; drinking himself senseless like a love-sick fool who needed someone like Stavros feeding him layers of potato, like a hot-blooded youth who couldn't control his infatuation, like Maria was some ghost he couldn't exorcise.

The next morning, Georg made his way up to her apartment. The morning air on the hill was surprisingly brisk for an acrid Mediterranean island. It was almost more refreshing than his usual morning swim, but the uphill climb did nothing for his pounding headache. When he arrived at her apartment, taking the stairs two at a time, pausing at the top to clear his head, he found a man sitting on the patio. Georg stopped, taken aback, as the man looked his way. He was well into the golden years, face and arms tanned and leathery from the sun. He wore overalls and a wide brimmed hat; a man used to hard work. Georg noticed a bucket and mop beside his chair. The help? But he sat there, relaxed and unhurried, like he owned the place.

Georg wondered how he appeared – unshaven, out of shape and winded. At least he no longer reeked of whiskey.

He nodded. "Kalimera." _Good morning. _

The man tipped a hand to his hat in greeting.

Georg hesitated, then continued in broken Greek. "I am Georg. I am looking for Maria."

"I am Alexander. The owner here."

Well, that explained it. Georg nodded again politely, his supply of Greek exhausted. Alexander looked him over, his eyes piercing blue beneath sleepy lids. "Maria has few guests," he commented at last. Georg had the sense that he'd been found wanting.

The thought, while infuriating, was oddly warming; that she had this protector figure in her life who cared about her wellbeing.

Georg held up his hand, still in it's bandage. "Maria helped me with this a few days ago," he said by way of explanation. Maria herself had invited him here, he wanted to add. Maria herself had assessed him and deemed him unthreatening… until he had threatened her.

Georg swallowed.

Alexander glanced at his hand. Georg wasn't sure he had understood, but he seemed mollified and a little amused by his attempts at garbled Greek. The corners of his eyes crinkled. "She is up that way." He pointed further up the hill. "At the church."

At the church? Georg raised his eyebrows, sorting through the days in his mind. It wasn't Sunday. Was Maria so pious she attended church every morning? But he nodded and thanked Maria's landlord, and turned back down the stairs, feeling unsettlingly like a schoolboy who'd just be scalded by the father of his date.

Further up the hill, the small road gave way to paved stairs interspersed with stretched of pebbled path. Looking down, he could see the harbour, with its rows of boats, mere toys at this distance, lined neatly at the docks. The small town clustered around it like little white stacking blocks. Georg wound his way upward, toward the peak, and soon, a small white church came into view. There was a slim cross perched upon its white domed roof, and a quaint bell tower peeked out from the far side. The building was surrounded by a low stone wall, and he could see a lone figure standing within. A garden, maybe? As he came closer, Georg realized it was a cemetery, a humble space scattered with small crosses and plain headstones.

Georg hesitated by the small wooden gate. Maria hadn't noticed him. She was standing in the middle of the yard, gazing out toward the open sea. Who did she know that was buried here? It was, he mused, not a bad place to be for your eternal rest, with open sky reaching toward the heavens and the soothing soundtrack of wind and waves. Perhaps, if he'd lived his life in a solitary, meditative place like this, even he could learn to believe in God.

After awhile, Georg approached her, making enough noise on the gravel that she would know he was there. Maria turned. Her hair was again bound in a kerchief to guard against the wind at the top of the hill, the same wind that whipped her skirts around her slender legs. She gave him a small but bright smile, like she hadn't spent the past week avoiding him like the plague. He couldn't help but smile back.

"Hello."

"Hello, Captain." She sounded eager. Could she be glad to see him? "Did Alex tell you to find me here?"

Georg nodded, feeling oddly grateful she didn't ask what he'd been doing at her apartment in the first place.

She nodded back, then turned away again, back to the remarkable view of sky and sea before her. He hesitated. There was a sense of peace to her that matched the surroundings – Georg realized he'd only ever known her amidst a flurry of activity – and it was almost astonishing to see her so contemplative, as though this spot, high above the world, was her place of solace. He didn't want to provoke her, as he always seemed to do.

Georg was of half a mind to leave her be when she said suddenly, "Captain, don't – I'd like you to stay." It was as though she'd read his mind.

"I didn't know if I was forgiven," he started, keeping his voice light.

She turned back to look at him, eyes solemn. "Captain, I've been thinking about it – " had she? " – and I shouldn't have asked… I mean, I'm far too outspoken – it's one of my worst faults. Stavros tries to get me to think before I speak, but…"

"You didn't say anything wrong," he protested. "I wasn't used to… I'd forgotten – maybe hoped to forget – I hadn't always wanted to send the children away, and there were other factors…"Georg faltered, the part of him that wanted her to know warring with the part that refused to think about it at all.

Maria shook her head. "You don't need to explain yourself to me, Captain."

He sighed. "I suppose what I'm trying to say is I was simply a cantankerous old man."

A smile brightened her face. "You're not cantankerous. And you're not that old." She flushed, and he chuckled inwardly. "You do make very good omelets. I didn't know you could cook."

Georg made a small noise of outrage. "Of course I know how to cook."

Maria laughed at his childish expression. "Sorry! It's just… I assumed you had a cook. I mean, you talked about a housekeeper…"

"I did," he conceded, impressed that she remembered. "I worked for a short time in the galley when I first entered the navy. We all had to learn."

Maria nodded agreeably, and moved a few steps to the side, which Georg took as an invitation to join her at the small pathway between the headstones. It didn't take much, he marveled incredulously, to restore that sense of easy intimacy between them. He came up beside her, and examined the cross in front of her.

_In memory of Pierre Bernard. 1892 – 1927. _

A Frenchman? Georg's eyebrow rose in surprise. How did a Frenchman come to be buried here, on this small Greek island so far from home?

"Someone you knew?" He asked lightly.

"Yes." She didn't seem inclined to expand.

"I'm… sorry," he offered tentatively. "Is today a special occasion?"

She shook her head. "I come here every morning."

Georg stared at her, stunned into silence. _1927\. _Maria had been holding vigil daily for two _years_. He recalled that she had been on the island for just about two years.

Could this be…? Now that the thought had crossed his mind, it was obvious. It must be. This was the man Maria had been governess for, the man she'd accompanied across the Adriatic. The man she'd left Austria – left home – for.

He could have sworn she'd told him her employer had been a Viennese. But – no. Georg recalled that the son, the boy who'd been her charge, had had a German name. The father was a real estate developer or something to that extent, and traveled extensively. And then he'd died in some tragic accident she'd refused to talk about.

The realization hit him suddenly. Maria had loved this man. She may have started as his governess, but it certainly hadn't ended that way. She'd loved him while he was alive, and now that he was gone, carried him in heartbreak. He knew. Knew the slow drip of sorrow – in sad melodies and cryptic references and moments where the only way to cope was to shut down.

It explained much about her. That sadness that'd first attracted him to her, the music that spoke of loss and yearning. That blind determination to move beyond it, to put grief behind her. So Maria had loved him. He felt the thought as a punch in the gut. Georg couldn't be sure what had caused it – whether it was that Maria was more like him than he'd thought, or that she had once loved so ardently.

"Your… employer?" Lover? Husband?

Maria nodded. She didn't seem shaken. Perhaps time had been kinder to her than it'd been to him.

"He was French?" Georg did not know how to broach a conversation about grief, even thought the grief was not his. Perhaps it was better that he didn't.

"He was. His late wife was Austrian, and he spoke German fluently, so I'd never picked up much French, I'm afraid. Just a few words here and there from Johannes."

"And you said he was a… property developer?"

"You remembered!" She gave him a smile, which he found himself not quite able to return, startled as he was by the revelation about her. "Yes. Vacation properties. Before we came here we were in Italy for a few weeks, on the Rivera." Maria shook her head. "I never thought I'd get to be a globetrotter."

Georg hesitated. He shouldn't. He definitely shouldn't. But his mouth seemed to have a mind of its own. "You didn't tell me you loved him."

The silence pressed between them. She went very still, as thought understanding that if she move or spoke at all, it would be a point of no return.

Then, she turned fully to face him. He could feel rather than hear her exhale. "We were going to be married."

The shock of this second surprise paled in comparison to the first. It merely added another layer of heartache, of loss. Maria had planned to give her life to this man – and the life they could have had together, it hadn't even been given a chance. The future together… that was what Georg had mourned most of all. Wondering each and every day how they would have filled it together. Did Maria get to experience any of it? In this regard, she was worse off than he'd been.

He felt a familiar stab of sorrow for this young woman, a feeling he knew all to well. "Maria – " he started, their common grief opening a new connection between them.

"Wait – " she said quickly, like she understood. Georg waited, and she paused again. Then she said quietly, "I didn't love him."

Under this third shock, Georg fell utterly silent.

"I – I didn't love him," she repeated. "I cared about him – very much. I respected him. Pierre was kind. He was funny, and very hardworking. He was lonely. He'd only had a few years with his wife before she died."

Maria turned outward again, toward the sea, as though she could see her past laid before her. "When I was sent to work for him, I didn't want to go. I didn't want to leave the only home I knew. But I was told it would be good for me – it would broaden my horizons before I settled down." She grinned ruefully. "Pierre liked that I was Austrian, and could speak with his son and keep that connection to his mother's culture. _I _liked that he gave me free reign over Johannes – even when he'd come home every day dirty, his clothes torn. Sometimes wet."

Georg almost snorted, suddenly imaging Maria as the governess to _his _children. Would they, too, have appeared before him dirty, wet, and bedraggled? The thought was unexpectedly amusing.

"The arrangement suited both of us. I became part of the family, and I fell in love."

"But – "Georg started to say.

"Not with him. With Johannes. His son. He was six years old. The shyest, sweetest boy. He'd lost his mother very young, just as I did, and we became the best of friends. When it was time for him to start school, Pierre had to pull him out because they would be traveling soon. He was a devoted father, but his job took him away a lot. He needed a caregiver, and I – I didn't want to say goodbye."

"You agreed to marry Pierre for his son," Georg said slowly, comprehension finally dawning. Maria had agreed to enter a marriage of convenience. Suddenly, that she'd suggest he marry to give his children a mother didn't seem so shocking to him.

"He trusted me with his son, and I trusted him, trusted that he would always care for us."

"You would have given your life for this family."

"I was prepared to give up everything." She looked at him with such intensity in her bright blue eyes Georg wondered if he was missing something.

"I would have done anything for Johannes, I loved him so." Maria was quiet for a long moment, and when she spoke next her voice wobbled with true heartbreak. Alarmed at how overwhelmed she'd become, when she'd been so stoic about the rest of it, Georg reached out to grip her shoulder with his hand. "But I couldn't. The accident… it took Pierre… and it took Johannes. It took _everything_ from me."

Georg took that to mean she had lost the future that had been promised to her, and shook his head sympathetically. She half turned into him, and he slid his arm along the length of her shoulders.

"Well, anyway. Johannes' grandmother sent for him through a sailor nephew of hers, and took him back to France. I… I cried for weeks after, but it was for the best. How could I support myself and a child?" She looked up at him. Her eyes were dry, and her voice was bitter.

How many times, in these past two years, had she berated herself for giving up the child, blamed herself for not being enough? Maria had lived these past two years in purgatory, just as he had.

The difference was she didn't have a choice. And he had.

"Maria," he started again. He cleared his throat, determined to clear the air. "I – erhm, I really have no right to say this… the situation with my children – "

"Captain, you don't need to explain," she said for a second time. Her eyes had cleared, her voice soft. She pulled away from him, but slid her hand into his. In comfort. In solidarity. "You love them very much, I can tell." She sighed, and Georg wondered if she even realized how hard she was squeezing his hand, or that he was squeezing back. "You didn't want to let them go, either."

He paused. "No, I didn't." And in that moment, it seemed to be enough.

* * *

A/N: This story is coming together! I'm really excited to dig deeper into Maria's history - it's AU, but aren't there familiar bits from the movie? ;) I'm also taking great liberties with bits of Maria's real history. Still much more on the way. :)

Thank you all for reading, and the lovely reviews and messages! Would love to know what you thought of this chapter. xx


	5. The Hills (come alive)

The Hills (come alive) 

Maria had known the first night she met him that Captain Georg Von Trapp was broken, and like a shard of something broken, had a side that could cut. She'd sensed that he could be harsh, could be violent, could be ruthless.

_Would you? Would you marry me? _

She hadn't fully expected that he would be cruel.

Somehow, the Captain had made a mockery of a past he hadn't even known existed, for she had never told him – had never told anyone – that she had once come weeks from marriage. Pierre had said nearly those exact words to her, when she'd agreed to stay, agreed to be the mother of his son, agreed to follow him wherever he went. He'd asked her multiple times, checking that she was sure. He had been both sincere and grateful. Pierre had never threatened her. Pierre had never even raised his voice at her. Pierre had never shaken her to her core – perhaps had never known she had that kind of depth.

But Captain Von Trapp had. The sheer intensity and desperation of him, which had overwhelmed her all the more because she'd let him get that close, had dropped her vigilance in favour of the fragile spell that had been woven between them that night, had left her trembling and unable to sleep until almost daybreak.

But how could she be angry with him? He'd saved her from the drunken sailors who'd tried to assault her, and saved her from wallowing in the aftermath. He'd shown a gentle, considerate side that night. He'd made her breakfast.

How could she be angry, when she knew exactly what had caused him to lose control?

Maria could see him now, and he was a lot like her. It wasn't merely grief – grief was something that could be overcome, the pain of loss becoming more tolerable with time. Maria had known grief, too. But she also knew about regret. Guilt. Helplessness. Living life skirting around something that ate at you from within, a sort of emptiness that was impossible to avoid falling into, from time to time.

She wasn't yet clear on exactly what circumstances had forced Captain Von Trapp to send away his children, forcing him dangerously close to the edge, but what _was_ clear to her was that he was still fighting, refusing to submit despite what he himself believed, and wanted her to believe. He was too… passionate, for someone who had given up.

It was what made her feel she could reveal her own unconventional history to him. And Captain Von Trapp had understood, as she had known he would.

He'd reacted with a kind of tenderness she never supposed he had, and it connected them in a way that being Austrian in a little Greek town couldn't. They had left the little cemetery by the church together. She had offered him a tea at her apartment. Midway through, he'd confessed he never much liked tea, and she'd laughed and promised not to judge. They'd talked of lighter topics, like how Captain Von Trapp had spent the week functioning – or malfunctioning, as it were – with his broken hand, or how she'd agreed to help Cayenne dye her hair, and then couldn't get the bright colouring out of her scalp. It was nearly lunchtime when Maria walked him down the stairs and they'd parted ways. Maria had watched as he whistled under his breath and gave Alex, who was sitting on the steps in front of his apartment, a little wave. It was the first time they'd parted where she could be sure she'd see him again – the Captain had asked if he might come up again tomorrow (citing the fresh air), and she'd said yes. For some reason, the simple exchange had made her blush, to her infuriation and his amusement.

As Captain Von Trapp disappeared down the hill and around a corner, Alex came to stand by her side.

"He speaks German."

Maria smiled. Austrian German.

"You said you never expected to speak German again." Alex kept a straight face, but she could hear the chuckle in his voice.

"It didn't seem very promising at the time," Maria allowed. That had not been a happy time, those early days when she'd found herself alone on the island, unable to understand even those who'd tried to help her. Alexander, who had known and worked with Pierre, had taken her under his wing and given her a place to stay, even when at first she couldn't pay. He'd fussed over her like a mother hen – though it seemed absurd for a man who'd once fought pirates – and taught her most of the Greek she knew. Through her long convalescence after Pierre's death, he'd come to sit on the patio during his morning cleaning, and he'd talk to her until the words begun to make sense. Until she started talking back.

She found Alex outright grinning at her, eyes twinkling beneath his familiar straw hat.

"What?"

He shook his head at her. "Nothing. You are like a daughter in my eyes – it's just strange to see you with a boy."

Maria dissolved into giggles, wondering if anyone had ever dared call Captain Von Trapp a boy. She didn't think he'd react well at all. "Don't call him that to his face." She nudged his arm with hers. "You'll wound his pride."

Alex smiled sheepishly. "I am an old man." He patted her shoulder, making to return to his apartment. "You sound happy."

Maria returned his smile fondly. Of everyone on the island, he knew exactly the kind of road she'd taken to get back on her feet, had witnessed it firsthand and supported her in that quiet, encouraging way of his. Alex was right. She did feel… happy. Lighter. Like something had been lifted from her shoulders. And in a way, it had – Maria just never expected it would be a hardened retired Austrian naval captain that would end up sharing her burden.

She could find a friend in Captain Von Trapp. They were practically kin, and now they were allies. Maria thought back to the first night they'd met – she'd allowed herself to be charmed by how he spoke her language, how he'd been more set on talking then getting her into his bed, how he'd treated her not as a sailor going after a barmaid, but a gentleman spending an evening with a lady. She'd remember the fleeting feeling of disappointment when she learned that to him, their kiss had been a mistake, an alcohol induced lapse in judgment. But he'd been right. He didn't need a mistress, and she didn't want to be yet another port call-girl. What they both needed was a friend – someone who understood, someone with whom they wouldn't have to pretend.

Things fell into a new rhythm over the next few days. Maria had always been a late riser, especially after working late hours at the Siren. The sun was usually high in the sky by the time she even left for the church on the hill. Captain Von Trapp, she was to learn, was quite the opposite. True to his word, he met her at her apartment the next day. When Maria returned from the cemetery, she found him waiting for her on the patio, having lemonade with Alex.

It was an odd sight; Captain Von Trapp, freshly shaven, white linen shirt-sleeves rolled to the elbows, sitting at her small iron-wrought table, sipping from a tall glass of pink lemonade and looking quite comfortable. He hated sweet drinks! Alex was talking – Maria wondered whether he was sharing stories from his pirate-fighting days, their love of the sea bringing the two men together.

Both men stood as she came over, and she wondered exactly what about the scene was causing her heart to somersault in her chest. Something about it felt so… homely. It persisted even as Alex excused himself so she could sit down at the small table, even as she raised her eyebrows at the Captain's drink, even as he smiled a little sheepishly and told her, "not bad, just a little too… uh, pink."

And the fluttering of her heart turned into a gallop when he handed her a small cardboard box. "I brought lunch."

Maria pulled it gingerly closer, a delectable smell wafting from the box before she even started to open it. "It smells like…" Maria peeked inside. "Schnitzel! And noodle! How did you…?"

"I made it. On the boat."

"You cooked this?"

"You really don't have any faith in my culinary abilities, do you?" His mouth turned down in a look of positive dismay, which made her laugh, and just like that, all was right between them. They were two friends, sharing a meal from home.

Over lunch, Captain Von Trapp told her of the places he'd seen on his voyages around the world. Afterward, Maria offered to show him around the island. There was only time enough for a short walk, before she had to return to the apartment to prepare for her shift at the Siren. And so, they made plans to meet again the next day. And the next. And the next.

In the days that followed, Maria found herself getting up earlier, making her trek to the cemetery earlier – but no matter how early she returned, Captain Von Trapp would be waiting for her at the small table on her balcony.

"What do you think about, when you are up there every day?" He asked her once as they relaxed on the patio.

Maria tugged thoughtfully on a fold of her skirt. Such a question would once have made her uncomfortable, but she knew the Captain well enough now that she could be honest. "Let's see… now? Or two years ago?"

"Let's start with two years ago."

"Well, I used to go up there and cry. At first I was sad. Then I was angry. I wanted to escape everything, hide from everyone. I'd speak to Pierre – to the cross – going on in German like a madwoman. I guess I felt that if I made enough noise, he and Johannes might feel sorry for me and come back."

"You were grieving - that's hardly being a madwoman," the Captain pointed out.

Maria shrugged, non-committal. "When Stavros hired me at the Siren… I started telling Pierre and Johannes – I always imagined them together, even though Johannes was alive and well in France – about my work, about the things I did during the day."

"I've done that – I frequently used to speak to Agathe's headstone." Their eyes met, and Maria felt something swell in her chest, a warmth she'd come to associate with him with they spoke openly like this.

"Then one day… well, I didn't think about them as much, anymore. And eventually, I was just going up there to think."

The Captain nodded. "And now?"

"Well, I still find it clears my head, being up there. And I pray a little," she confided. "When I'm at the top of the hill, I always feel like I'm a little closer to God."

"I see." His voice was thoughtful. "Were you this devout before you came to the island?"

Maria paused. She had learned that Captain Von Trapp remained largely silent on the topic of God, although he told her he used to attend church in Salzburg with his family. She had a feeling that somewhere amidst his tumultuous past, he and God had parted ways. Maria couldn't blame him. She had once wanted to give her life to God, and even still at times had trouble keeping faith, and yet –

"Oh yes, Captain. Much more, in fact," she replied impishly, and a surprised and rather blank look crossed his face.

Devout with an unholy love of provoking the Captain.

Maria and Captain Von Trapp spent most of their days roaming the hills, from one end of the island to the other. There was a sense of familiarity to them, although they were nothing like the mountains of Austria. The Alps were green and alive and snow-capped. The hills of Milos were acrid and rocky. The air in the Alps was clear, filled with birdsong and tumbling waterfalls. Here, salt and brine clung to the breeze, carrying with it the eternal rumble of the sea.

But the brisk wind on the slopes and the sheer sense of wilderness remained the same, and Maria always seemed to respond to it. She wore her homemade dirndl dresses, and more often then not he sported a trachten jacket over his shirt to ward against the wind – for all they knew they could have been rambling across the Untersberg. Instead, she led the Captain up dusty pathways that ended in alien landscapes of white rock, explored old stone ruins, and twirled down to meet fine golden sand beaches and turquoise waters. It was nothing like home, and yet something still felt the same. Captain Von Trapp must have felt it too, for Maria found herself listening to stories of the Captain's family – stories of a happier time, and an unburdened Captain. He trekked through the hills, ever the stern, reserved, sometimes recalcitrant Captain, but she'd begun to see that he hadn't always been that way.

The first time it happened, Captain Von Trapp was halfway through his tale before Maria dared believe he was speaking about his children. He was telling a story of how he'd taken the family into the mountains shortly after Marta's birth. She was his sixth child, and had been a spring baby. It was the first nice day of the year, and the older ones were clamouring to get away. They'd had a lovely day and a picnic, and on their way back had all boarded the train and left the little station before they realized they had left their son Kurt behind.

Maria burst into laughter, from the sheer delight of hearing him speak about the children, and from the fact that she herself had missed that same train on a number of occasions – leaving _herself_ behind, she told the Captain.

He smiled, a little self-consciously. She knew it pained him to think of the children in their current state, but she saw no reason for him to forget he loved them and that they were _his _children. Maria started asking him about the children. The queries were a little tentative at first, the responses a little reserved, sprinkled through their conversation. He told her how Liesl, his eldest girl, had been accepted to a prestigious university in Germany for the following year, how the older boy Friedrich had won a medal on a Swiss sailing team, and the younger boy Kurt had taken up golf. Maria secretly wondered how much if their school life the Captain really knew – but he seemed proud of them all the same. He told her stories. Maria heard how Brigitta had once stayed out overnight in a gazebo behind the house reading a book, and nobody had noticed until she wasn't at breakfast the next day. She heard about the pranks the children – particularly tomboy Louisa – played on their governesses, and about the lively visits from the Captain's old friend Uncle Max, who plied the younger ones generously with candy. They compared notes on Salzburg locales – arguing over which gardens were the best for playing hide and seek, or which platz had the grumpiest regulars, who'd frown pointedly at children playing around the fountain (or in Maria's case, herself).

"You are just as bad as the children!" The Captain would say in exasperation, when Maria defended their antics one after another.

She couldn't help it, she felt like she knew his children. They reminded her of herself – all scrapes and torn clothes and having a marvelous time. If she met them, she knew she would like them.

Maria wasn't naïve. She knew this new routine could only be temporary. The Captain was a sailor. He'd escaped Austria to wander, and he'd as much as told her he was merely waiting for his hand to heal before sailing out. She knew he appreciated her companionship – and was very good company besides, when he wanted to be – but expected nothing else, wanted nothing else, really. Perhaps no longer had the capacity for anything else. And she didn't think she did, either.

Perhaps that was why she didn't think too much about it, letting whatever they had between them grow unchecked, knowing nothing would come of it.

She let him brush her windswept hair from her face, turning into the warmth of his hand when she felt him linger. She found herself reaching out to fix his collar, somehow much closer to him than she needed to be. And when she showed him the site where Venus of Milos had been discovered, she found him staring at her, eyes dark and burning, and she felt herself unable to look away.

She gave him her hand to hold as they slipped along rocky shorelines. And she didn't hesitate when he held out his arms to help her down a drop to a quiet strip of beach. She slid into them, and let him steady her within the circle of his arms.

"Thank you, Cap – " Her voice caught. The address felt silly when they were mere inches apart. And then all of a sudden, because of some miniscule shift in position, the way their hips aligned, the way her cheek grazed the stubble of his jaw… she felt the shock of it directly to her core. It was a warmth, a heaviness, and then she couldn't breathe at all.

The arm around her tightened. "My name, Maria." His laugh was low and breathless, the command a rumble in his chest. "Have you forgotten?"

"Hmm." Did she need to respond in words? She couldn't remember. He was looking at her, she could tell, and she was staring at his mouth. The heady smell of him made it hard to think – that masculine scent mixed with the sea that ran through his veins.

This was Captain Georg Von Trapp.

And there could be nothing between them.

And so, Maria drew even closer, a hair width away. "Thank you, Georg," she whispered… and kissed him on the tip of his nose.

The moment broken, he'd chased her along that narrow strip of sand.

Later, working at the Siren, Maria was glad they had not given in to a moment's temptation. She remembered the warmth, the tenderness, the curious tension between them. She'd wanted to kiss him, wanted to slide her arms around his neck, wanted to hold him like he held her… she'd wanted it more than she'd wanted anything. She'd been ready to lose herself in that moment.

It would have been a foolish move. How could she continue to function, if she lost herself? Spending time with the Captain – with _Georg _– in the mountains was a welcome reprieve; like a child at play, following her whims, chasing happiness and merriment.

But Maria was not a child.

Already, the nights at the Siren seemed harder. Both Maria and Georg were there in the evenings, but it was an entirely different beast. Though they never discussed it, Maria stayed away from him. She never spoke to him, never so much as looked at him, never served him. Maria could not be a cabernet girl for him, could not bring herself to play that role for him. She couldn't imagine how he would react if she did. Maria wondered if it was because she had seen so much more light these days, that working here felt so much darker.

She couldn't hide behind her guitar – when she tried, sitting there on the stage by herself, she felt naked, exposed, her music suddenly seeming out of place. Instead, Maria asked Stavros if she could dance. And even though he gave her a strange, assessing look, he let her. And so Maria danced, and she mixed drinks, and she flirted with men.

And Georg Von Trapp drank, eyes dark and unreadable, and watched her.

* * *

Georg saw who she really was.

A carefree young woman who loved natured, who laughed often, and sang constantly – why did she never sing down at the Siren? Here on the hills, she seemed to burst into song as though she couldn't help it, and her voice was sweet and evocative.

She hugged trees and coddled wildlife, and wasn't afraid to get dirty or wet.

It was only by seeing her out here that Georg saw how reserved she was at the Siren – she was not a siren at all, but a shadow. The real Maria was an open book, at the Siren she was guarded. The real Maria was impulsive, frank, and a little mischievous. Siren Maria was gregarious but hollow. The real Maria allowed herself to feel something besides carefully plastered exuberance – she was by turns wistful, and lonely, and homesick. Siren Maria would never have shoved an ice cream in his face when he called her a chicken for refusing to wade into the sea. The real Maria was vulnerable, and tough as nails.

Georg could see quite plainly what kind of family she'd create, what kind of children she'd have. The image turned into a feeling – a wholesome, joyous thing. It tugged at him, but he ignored it just as persistently. Georg didn't want to dwell on her future, and he couldn't be bothered to figure out why he felt so damn possessive about it.

He wasn't a family man – that much was obvious. He was a vagabond, killing time, waiting for a broken hand to heal. He liked women, and he liked Maria, although he obviously wasn't out to seduce a young innocent like her, despite what his dreams persisted in telling him. It didn't help that roaming about the hills all day had brought back a vitality he'd forgotten he had.

Georg couldn't deny that he did care about her. She'd told him she'd grown up an orphan; about how she'd lived with a neglectful uncle until she showed up to school one wintry Salzburg day in a threadbare sweater, and the authorities had intervened. And clearly, she'd known so little love that she would willingly give herself to a marriage devoid of it, only to lose the little bit of family she had. Surely she deserved a little happiness. Like a weed, she had survived a miserable childhood, a miserable youth – but Maria was more like a sunflower, turning toward the slightest bit of light. And Georg, old, bitter, cynical man that he was, found himself giving in to her enthusiasm. Found himself feeling… hopeful.

It could only be temporary. He would be gone within weeks, and she would go back to playing her guitar and dancing at the Siren. Georg had no stake in her future.

But one day, as he sat stretched out on the beach – what a strange beach it was, carved from giant sheets of greyish white rock that seemed to ebb and flow and reach upward into the sky like the waves themselves – and watched Maria pick her way along the shore, he found himself unable to ignore it.

"_The hills are alive, with the sound of music…"_

Her song floated to him. It was a song Georg knew, an old Austrian earworm when he hadn't been opposed to belting out a tune now and then in days of yore. He found himself humming along with her, tenor to her lovely soprano. Georg thought suddenly how absurd it seemed, that she was singing of laughing brooks and warbling larks, hidden away on this tiny Greek island. The song was intended for the majestic backdrop of the Austrian Alps… and Maria herself was surely meant for a more majestic backdrop anywhere, really.

When she finally collapsed beside him, winded and smiling, the words said themselves. "Maria. You shouldn't be here."

She turned toward him, still breathless and coming down from her high of twirling along the sea. Her hair, unbound today, blew across her face. "What?"

"You're… unhappy."

Maria frowned slightly, bewildered, as though he was suddenly speaking a different language. "But I am happy…Georg."

It still caught him off guard to hear her call him by name. Georg recalled the moment when he'd asked her to. When she'd slid straight into his arms like she belonged there, and his mind and body suddenly remembered what it was like to kiss her, and he could only think he wanted to do it again. He cleared his throat. He shouldn't have mentioned anything at all. But now Maria was looking at him curiously, a spark brewing in the depth of her blue eyes.

"Not here," he gestured to the beach around them. "_Here." _He swept his arms in a bigger, more encompassing gesture. "On the island. Working at the Siren."

Maria stared at him, open-mouthed. Then she blinked, and something in her expression shuttered. He felt it, like clouds passing in front of the sun. "I'm fine," she said, the same moment that he added, "I wish you didn't have to keep going there."

The fire in her eyes grew. "I'm fine," Maria said again, emphatically. "I have to work. I have to stay alive somehow." He saw her hands tremble as she hid them in her skirts. "You of all people – you should understand."

He knew she wasn't talking about her work, but her need to keep moving, her determination to keep going. He did understand.

Their eyes met. "I don't want to talk about the Siren," she said quietly.

And she would spend her days, blindly forging ahead, without ever charting due north. It made him want to shake her.

"But you've got to! Maria, look at you! You spend your days playing and dancing for a bunch of drunks when you could be a performer on the biggest stages in the world!"

She looked away, looking out at the sea so a curtain of hair hid her face. "You have no idea what I can and cannot do." The words were punctuated like stones plunking into water.

Was this woman determined to ignore who she was? "You should be looking for your life! Looking for – for _love_, instead of pandering to scoundrels." Maria flinched, like he had hit her. She moved away from him, pushing herself to her knees, and then to standing.

Georg stood with her, and made his voice softer. "You're hiding, Maria. I know life hasn't been easy for you alone on the island, but it doesn't mean you have to just accept it."

Her voice was furious. "_Accept_ it? Captain – " he didn't miss the way she reverted to his address, " – two years ago, I had nothing. No vows, no family, no husband, no way to support myself. I had lost the only person I loved. But now, I am surviving. I am making something of myself." _You, _Captain, on the other hand – you have _everything_, and you spend your days running from it. All of it!"

Georg paused, caught off guard by the venom in her voice.

They glared at each other, both breathing heavily. Maria's words were almost a gasp. "Who are you, to tell me what to do?"

Georg inhaled sharply, then threw up his hands and said as though it were the most obvious thing in the world, "Maria. I care! Unfortunately, so it seems, it appears I've grown to care." His hand balled into fists at his sides. "And – oh, for God's sake –I worry about you. I'm afraid for what will happen to you if you stay. That one day, you'll be forced to do something you don't want to do!"

There was a moment of silence, as she opened her mouth but didn't seem to know what to say. Then, Maria wheeled on her heels, and stalked away from him. "Where are you going?"

"To the apartment! I need space!"

Abruptly, just like that, Georg's exasperation vanished, and to his surprise he found himself fighting back a chuckle. Perhaps she couldn't know it, but it sounded like they'd been married for decades.

He watched her retreat, and then saw her steps falter. She swiveled around just enough so she could look at him. "For what it's worth… I don't want you to go there either. I don't want you to keep drinking like that." Her yell trembled from either breathlessness or emotion, he couldn't tell. She looked down, and even from this distance, he could see her swallow. "I'm afraid for you, too."

Before he could get a word in edgewise, Maria had turned back around, stomping directly between two giant monolithic white columns of rock, and disappeared.

* * *

A/N: Hope you enjoyed this chapter, and the glimpses of Milos' fabulous scenery. Once upon a time (pre-kids) we'd spent a number of weeks in Greece, and Milos was definitely one of our favourites. Yes, Venus of Milos was actually discovered in Milos, and yes, it did use to be a pirates lair. The last scene with the white rock describes Sarakiniko - the landscape is really out of this world!

I had a great - and challenging - time with this dreamier and more whimsical sequence (M and G are so resistant to it!) Thank you all for reading - would love to hear your thoughts! xx


	6. The House on the Hill (Reprise)

The House on the Hill (Reprise)

There was a storm that evening. It came on suddenly, brewing over the sea and sweeping toward the shore, a typical summer tempest for these parts. Dark, ominous clouds rolled in, blotting out the sky, fat droplets of rain already soaking the ground before lightning and thunder could catch up. This type of storm could last for minutes, or days.

Maria looked out the window of her small bedroom. Being angled more toward the street, it didn't offer the same view of the sea as the window in her main room. It was so angry outside she could hardly make out the building across the road, never mind the sliver of deep-blue water she could usually see, the view distorted by the streaks of rain pelting against the glass. Maria was cozied in bed with a book and a cup of tea, covers piled high around her as she listened to the rumble of thunder and felt the room vibrate. Thankfully she didn't have to work tonight. It was the first of her two nights off, which Stavros staggered amongst the girls every two weeks.

Maria was afraid of thunderstorms. At least at home, she could distract herself and indulge her fears with as much comfort as she could. At the Siren – well, Stavros knew what she was like when she had to weather a storm at the Siren, and even if he was inclined to take pity on her, he couldn't very well send her home during the middle of it.

Storms. One of those things she had once loved as a child, but now she could hardly stand it. Maria had vague recollections of jumping in puddles, splashing her father, her mother showing her a rain dance. But then they had died, and Maria stopped loving the rain. And when she was taken from her uncle and placed in the city's care… although she'd had a roof over her head and warm, sturdy clothes, nothing made her realize how alone she was more than dark clouds and pounding rain. And then, ever since the accident… it'd all become so much harder, something to be feared.

All these things Captain Georg Von Trapp knew nothing about. And yet there he was, lecturing her on life, and love! Oh, his intentions had been good, she knew – he was only trying to look out for her. But it'd stung. She didn't want to be just a barmaid to him. She didn't want him to pity her, to think less of her, to point out exactly how empty her life seemed. Captain Von Trapp, whose very name opened doors to opportunities, who only had to enter a room to command the attention of every woman within, who'd had the kind of family that one could only envy. Life hadn't been easy for him either, Maria knew – but he could never know what it was like, to have fight for every opportunity, to be overlooked based on pedigree. He would never understand the struggle to simply _belong_, that she had no time to think about ambition, about admiration… and the only time she thought she had found her place, knew what she wanted – she had been sent away and then ended up here.

So she'd made her life as a bargirl, a cabaret dancer on a small Greek island. It wasn't what she expected would happen. To be honest, it might have horrified her to imagine such a life at one time. But Maria had made her peace with it, and she didn't need an arrogant, _ignorant _sea Captain – laden with enough baggage himself to sink a ship – to snatch it all away from her. She shouldn't – _couldn't _– care what Georg Von Trapp thought of her.

The white walls of the small room flashed as lightning streaked across the window, followed almost immediately by a roar of thunder overhead. Maria felt the reverberation in her bones. She wanted to dive under the covers, and might have if it weren't for the cup of tea resting in her cupped hands. Instead, she huffed a breath of defiance. She had tricks she used to combat storms like these.

_Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens_

_Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens_

_Brown paper packages tied up with string_

_These are a few of my favourite things… _

The song started out slow, a little timid, as it always seemed to do these days.

_Cream coloured ponies and crisp apple strudels _

_Doorbells and sleighbells and schnitzel with noodle _(that had not been a favourite thing the last time she sang the song, but since her lunch on the terrace with Georg, seemed to worm its way in there)

_Wild geese that fly with the moon on their wing_

_These are a few of my favourite things… _

Maria had no sooner begun to get into the song, ready to set aside her teacup and let the itch in her feet swing her out of bed, than she heard a pounding on the door, audible even through the rain and wind.

She froze, heart lifting into her throat for the briefest instant as the sharp rapping came again, before she heard the voice of Captain Georg Von Trapp shouting her name.

Shocked into action, Maria sprang from the bed, hastily discarding the teacup and flying through her living room to the door. She wrenched it open to find a thoroughly drenched Captain on the doorstep.

"Oh!"

She stared.

This Georg could be a dream. An apparition. A figment of her imagination – a dark hero she'd conjured out of the nineteenth century novels she used to devour – dashing, dangerous, and a little bit insane.

He'd been caught in the rain, obviously – although he should know better than anyone how to read signs of a brewing storm. But for some reason, Georg had stayed out in the hills long after they'd parted ways instead of going back down to his boat.

He stood before her, half in shadow, half thrown into relief by the light of the room behind her. Rain darkened his hair, rivulets chiseling his features, carving paths down his neck, and vanishing under a very sodden, transparent white shirt. It clung to his torso like a fine carving by an expert artist. He managed to look at ease, although she could tell he was taunt against the buffeting wind – as though, like some sea god, the hurricane beyond her door was meant for him.

Maria flushed, face burning. It was absurd, like _she _was the one presenting half-decently on the doorstep.

The faintest look of amusement crossed his features, as though he'd read her mind. He seemed content to stand there, impervious to rain and wind, and watch her stare at him, eyes bright in the night.

The wind was blowing pellets of rain through the open door, and before long, her hair and the front of her dress were damp. And yet, she didn't feel it at all – didn't feel anything besides the intense gaze pining her to the spot.

A slow smile appeared on Captain Von Trapp's face, and he said drily, "I'm soaked to the skin."

Maria almost gasped as she came out of her daze, springing aside to let him in. "Oh – oh Captain… Georg, come out of the rain. At once."

And then he was standing in her small living room, tall enough that the top of his head almost scraped the ceiling, dripping wet with puddles of rainwater pooling at his feet.

He looked around slowly, like he was reacquainting himself with a long lost cherished haunt, not seeming nearly as shaken as she felt.

"Um – " Maria fumbled, her eyes darting anywhere but at him. "Let me get you a towel – "

She turned into her bedroom to fetch the spare towels she usually kept in her small closet. Maria stopped for a moment to gather herself, pressing her forehead tightly against the cool wooden door. What had gotten into her? It was only Georg, as unexpected as his presence here tonight was. The poor man was soaked and in need of shelter. There was no need for alarm… or – or…

Maria left the thought unfinished as she headed back to the main room. Georg was standing at the kitchenette, a rag in hand.

"Here, dry off – "

"Don't worry, I'll clean this up – " He gestured toward the trail of water on the floor.

She handed over her towels and he nodded his thanks. "What were you doing out…" Maria trailed off as she watched Georg dry his face and hair, the rest of her thought disappearing in a shaky exhale. His dark hair looked tousled in a way she never imagined Captain Von Trapp's hair looking. He looked… _undone_, and it was… "Erhm – "

Georg gave her a sheepish grin as he half-heartedly patted down his shirt and pants.

"Your clothes…"

It was like mopping up a pond with a small sponge. She hesitated, and Georg gave a small huff of exasperation and muttered an expletive under his breath. He turned to the kitchen, and set the towel down on the counter. In one swift motion, he removed his shirt, and proceeded to wring it out in the sink.

Maria froze. If she thought his wet shirt left little to the imagination, she had been wrong. She swallowed. He was just drying off – surely she should turn away, give him a little privacy… and yet she couldn't seem to avert her eyes. From the powerful lift of his shoulders, to the way his muscles tensed rhythmically as he wrung out his shirt, she traced the smooth planes until they tapered at the small of his back… She felt a sudden rush of white-hot heat that caused her chest, her belly, her legs – _everything _to tense.

"Are you planning to put that back on?" She squeaked, before realizing the words were out of her mouth. She flushed, mortified.

She saw his hands pause over the sink. He straightened slowly, and the air in the entire room seemed to still. He turned to her, an infuriating, knowing smirk on his face. "Yes," he said simply, shaking out the shirt and slipping it back over his head. It was no longer dripping, at least.

In the end, she gave Georg some of Pierre's old things. The rain didn't seem about to let up anytime soon, and she couldn't imagine Captain Von Trapp trying to wring out his pants in her sink. Maria had sent most of Pierre's clothes away with Johannes, to the woman who had nearly become her mother-in-law. Maria felt for her, despite what had befallen her own life. The poor mother had so little left of her son. She'd only kept a few rag-tag items she didn't think held any sentimental value.

Georg dressed in her tiny closet of a bathroom, while she waited anxiously, wedged against the far corner of the sofa, as though intent on putting as much distance between them as possible. He'd been at her apartment often in the last few weeks, almost always outside on the patio. She couldn't put her finger on what had thrown her off balance… whether it was him barging in at a time when she'd least expected visitors, or seeing him when her emotions were running wild from the storm and from the words he'd said to her that very afternoon. Or the way he looked, tousled and – she kept coming back to the word – undone, that'd made her feel like rather than letting him in during a storm, she was seeing him first thing in the morning. Or the way she was now imagining him moving about her room, where she slept, where she bathed, where she dressed… moving as though he belonged there. She'd left her teacup in the bedroom, but instead of going to retrieve it, Maria made herself another cup. After a moment's hesitation, she made one for Georg as well.

She settled back on the couch, stretching her legs lengthwise and hoping the tea would soothe the tension she was feeling, but it was Georg himself who did. When he reappeared, wearing an old shirt and trousers in hunter green, pant legs ending at the ankles – they were of the same build, but Georg was evidentially several inches taller – Maria couldn't help but smile.

"They'll do," he said, pointedly ignoring Maria as she giggled, and came over to join her on the sofa. The tips of her toes brushed his leg as he sat, and she almost gasped at the touch, even though it had been but a whisper of contact. Self-conscious, Maria tucked her feet in under her. Georg appeared not to notice, instead peering at his legs, where the cuffs had pulled even higher as he sat. His lips thinned, a look that might have been haughty were it not for the complete bewilderment on his face. "The material is not stretchy," he explained, looking quite put out as Maria pressed a hand against her mouth to hide her widening grin.

"Yes I know," she told him. "I made them."

"You did?" Distracted, Georg turned to look at her, startled but impressed. She supposed all the women he knew ordered their clothing from renowned couturiers.

"Mm-hmm…" Maria started mischievously, "from the drapes that used to hang in my bedroom."

He made a small noise at the back of his throat, his eyebrows travelling up his forehead in disbelief. "Drapes?"

"Yes Captain," Maria demurred. There was something very endearing about this usually stern and cynical man when he became childishly affronted. "Pierre was a bit of a stickler for furnishings, being in his line of work. He swapped out the curtains when we first moved into our old rental, but they still had plenty of wear left."

"Do you mean to tell me, _Fraulein_, that you have me sitting here, at this table, dressed in nothing but some old _drapes_?"

"Mm-hmm." A broad grin lit her face as Georg blanched. Dear well-dressed, aristocratic Baron Von Trapp.

"I'd made a set for Johannes, you see," Maria said, when it seemed Georg was temporarily robbed of speech. "He went everywhere on the island in them. Sometimes, Pierre would join us, and all he had were these ridiculous business suits. It's not easy to buy fabric on the island. _He _wasn't offended when I made these for him."

"I'm sure they fitted him better," Georg muttered, frowning. Maria could tell he was trying very hard _not _to look offended, and decided by a narrow margin to take pity on him.

"There, there," she soothed innocently, pushing the second cup of tea on the small coffee table toward him. Mollified – and dry – Georg reached for it and readily took a sip. For someone who claimed not to be fond of tea, it certainly seemed to be growing on him. The thought was oddly comforting, especially when Maria knew Captain Von Trapp's alternative choice of drink.

For a minute the room was quiet, broken by the lashing of rain against its walls. Maria watched the pendant lamp hanging above them. It's light trembled and flickered as thunder pressed overhead – and yet she felt relaxed. This felt familiar. This felt cozy, felt warm. She could sense his presence even without looking; could hear his breathes, feel him looking at her, could tell by how still he sat that he was turning something over intently in his mind. That she now knew this small detail about him made her smile internally.

For the first time in years, Maria didn't feel afraid.

"You were right," Georg said abruptly. The admission took her by surprise. Maria looked up to search his face. He looked calm, and yet there was something urgent and desperate in his voice that she gave a little murmur of sympathy. The words tumbled from him like he'd been thinking it for hours. Had he? Had he spent the afternoon torturing himself? Dragging himself through his past, doling out harsh verdicts?

Maria thoughts back to the way she had lost her temper, and regretted it. Georg had been through enough.

"I did have everything." His words were almost a sigh. "And my wife would have agreed with you. To her, the children _were_ everything. As they should have been. But after she died… I'd convinced myself I had lost it all."

"You were grieving," Maria murmured. He'd said those exact words to her before. _It's okay – I understand. _

"I... neglected the children. Dreadfully. I wasn't there when they needed a father. Let them run rampant with one governess after another."

"But you stayed. For them."

"I stayed because I could not leave them without a caregiver," he said brusquely. He stood, tense. She watched silently as he turned away, toward the window and the darkness beyond. Slowly, he forced himself to turn back, as though determined to lay bare his past before her. "Staying in that house was torture. I couldn't face the empty rooms, couldn't face the memories. Couldn't face _her_. How would I explain to Agathe what happened to the children? I escaped where I could."

Escaped into the mountains. Escaped into alcohol-induced oblivion. Escaped into the bedrooms of other women so he wouldn't have to think about his wife.

Maria swallowed.

He took a step toward her, so quickly it seemed involuntary. "No, never that." His voice was almost harsh. "I couldn't even consider it. For many years, I was as celibate as a priest."

She blushed, wondering what on her face has given away her thoughts so easily. And Georg – she knew he'd sought out women, as any sailor would when they came to shore. She didn't blame him for it. Didn't let herself think too much about it.

Didn't know it'd affected her until now, as he stood before her, open and vulnerable.

"But there was no doubt I drank my way through Austria. Vienna was the worst – the most expensive booze and the prettiest distractions," Georg spat out bitterly. "If Elsa hadn't found me, I would have self-destructed eventually."

Clearly agitated, he turned away again, this time to start pacing the length before her couch.

"Elsa…?" Maria prompted, feeling both shy and curious. She hadn't known there was another woman in his life, besides his wife.

"Baroness Elsa Schraeder. The widow of an old business acquaintance of mine. He'd left her the fortune when he died, but she had the grace… and the wits." He paused his pacing to glance at her, almost entreating, and Maria saw his face had softened. She smiled back encouraging. How could she think ill of this woman, who had been the one to bring some semblance of meaning back to his life? He continued. "Elsa was the crown jewel amongst her already glittering circle of friends. She gave the gayest parties in all of Vienna, bragged about having the finest couturier in Vienna, and held the attention of the most eligible bachelors in Vienna. I can't imagine why, but she took pity on me when I became inconsolably drunk at one of her parties."

Georg's expression had darkened, and Maria knew she would never hear the story of what exactly had occurred between the two of them in that moment. Perhaps Georg himself couldn't even describe it. He cleared his throat. "She lost her husband over a decade ago – she knew what I needed. She was patient. She was good company… an intelligent woman, despite all the social gallivanting I could hardly stand. She didn't ask anything of me I wasn't capable of giving." He chuckled ruefully. "We made Vienna's most perfect widow and widower couple."

"Why doesn't that sound happy?" Maria couldn't stop herself wondering out loud, although she knew. Perhaps Georg and this Baroness Schraeder had been compatible, had been comfortable together, perhaps he had even loved her, in his way – but she sensed Georg had not been in a good place. Her heart ached for the poor, grieving man of two years ago, who had forfeited the idea that he deserved happiness.

Georg gave another little bitter chuckle, looking at her indulgently. "Because the story doesn't end well, that's why. I invited her to Aigen, and we became engaged weeks later."

"Oh!" Maria inhaled, shocked that he had once entertained the idea of a second marriage. Was that, then, why he had exploded at her offhanded suggestion of marrying to give the children a mother? Because it had been exactly what he had tried to do?

Georg didn't answer right away, coming to a stop beside the window, as though he could peer outside into the darkness, could see through time and space to Aigen, two years ago. From her seat, Maria could see his reflection, could make out the faint outline of his face, drawn and stern.

"Elsa was happy enough at the villa, although I had no doubt her heart remained in Vienna. But she was not fond of children. It didn't help the day she met them they'd escaped their governess and gone rowing about the lake. They were dripping wet and dirty by the time they came home." Georg shook his head in exasperation, although Maria saw his shoulders relax when he heard her giggle at his back. "You would have found it endearing, Maria. I thought Elsa was going to recoil in horror, those little heathens. But she told it in stride. She was gracious, and she did have their best interests at heart, when she saw how wild they were. She was the one who suggested we consider boarding school."

Despite knowing the outcome, Maria felt her heart constrict in dread as Georg paused. "I had not been much of a father. I thought it would be for the best."

Maria held very still in the silence that followed. She did not see how sending the children away would ever make things better. It was obvious Georg needed them. And the children needed their father. If she had been there, if she had known Georg then – known his children – perhaps she would have fought for them.

But she didn't say it. The decision had wiped him out, leaving a mere shadow of the man he'd once been, if the glimpses she'd seen on the hills these past few weeks were anything to go by. It'd broken him, filled him with so much self-loathing he'd had to flee, overcome at last, not with grief, but with guilt. In a sense, he _had _lost everything, and Maria found herself desperately wishing otherwise.

On impulse, she stood, so she could see her reflection in the window as well as his. Georg's eyes flickered toward the movement, and she knew he was also seeing the both of them.

He sighed, and she realized he was speaking again. "They did not want to go," he confessed to her reflection. "And I missed them… after they were gone."

Slowly, Maria approached him, and they both watched the window as she drew closer. She paused when she was still a little behind him, their images overlapping at the edges. Heartbroken at the heaviness in his words, Maria could only stand in mute sympathy. Georg turned his head a little toward her, his nose touching her head in the window.

"As for Elsa and I…" Georg sighed in resignation.

" – you don't need to tell me," Maria told him quickly. He didn't have to relive it. She didn't need him to tell her that things hadn't worked out with Baroness Schraeder. If Georg had claimed he was self-destructive before he'd sent the children away… Maria could only imagine what had happened afterward. "I'm sorry," she added on impulse, feeling sad on his behalf.

"You shouldn't be." His voice was a growl. He whirled to her, a very real force she could reach out and touch. It was as if all of a sudden, he had brought the storm inside, just like he had the first time he'd been here – but unlike then, Maria was not afraid. She knew him, now.

"I wronged her. I started drinking. Picked fights when I didn't have to. Flirted scandalously with her friends." Georg paused, passing a hand across his eyes as though he could unsee it all, and Maria felt faintly sick. "I treated her abominably. She didn't deserve it."

_It wasn't your fault,_ she wanted to tell him. But at the same time, it was. Georg _wanted _to hurt, wanted to punish himself for what he'd done. And he'd taken a hammer to his relationship with as much force as he could manage, breaking himself and this woman whose only error was that she hadn't figured out what his children needed. What he needed.

His laugh was bitter. "Vienna welcomed me with open arms. A bibulous Don Giovanni. The next Casanova." He held out his own arms. "Not the kind of man you thought I was, am I?"

Maria stared at him, at his open arms, wondering suddenly how he would react if she stepped right into them. Would they pretend it was her place to embrace him, to soothe the very depth of him, to fill the void that had been left by a deceased wife, the absence of seven children, and a botched relationship? The thought was fleeting. Maria was long past the days when she did things on impulse. She sighed. "If you're fishing for compliments, I don't think I can help you." She hesitated, then reached out, taking hold of both his arms.

He looked startled, bringing his arms in, but didn't pull away. "God forsaken creature that I am," he finished, sighing in return. Maria wondered if Baroness Schraeder had said those words to him. Gently, she slide her hands down his arms, clad in those awful drapes, and he only looked at her. She stopped just above his wrists. "I don't believe you're the sort of man you think you are," she told him softly. Despite everything, she couldn't believe he was truly depraved at heart.

Georg exhaled, long and slow, and it seemed to her the entire room shuddered, deflating as the tension dissipated between them. He flipped his palms over so her hands slid into his.

How different this was from the first time.

When he spoke his voice was softer, contemplative. "I used to drink to forget the past… and now I'm trying to forget the present. You are right, Maria, I _am _a coward. And I don't know what it is I hope to do."

He blinked, as if the admission surprised even himself.

Maria remained silent. She knew. She should tell him that eventually, he would have to face it. Would have to face the children. Would have to make things right with Baroness Schraeder.

But she couldn't. Not tonight. Not when he was here, in front of her, like this.

His gave a little shrug. "So here I am. I've been abroad for the last two years. I see the children once or twice a year at their school in Switzerland." He sounded almost wistful, and reflexively, Maria nudged his hands with hers. His eyes flashed to meet hers, suddenly focused, as something in his voice changed. "There's nothing for me in Austria. So why not run. Sail. Drink. Look for distractions on small Greek islands..."

His thumbs brushed across her knuckles, and Maria almost trembled. How quickly the steady touch of comfort became a burn, a flame.

And like a moth to flame, she came willingly. "Are you calling me a distraction?"

She felt him slide his hands along her arms to her elbows, bringing them closer still. "Oh, I'd hardly call you a mere distraction, Maria."

She smiled, tilting up to him. Her hands felt warm nestled against his sides. "Then what would you call me, Georg?"

"Hmm." He pulled slightly away to look at her, even as his hold tightened. "Tenacious. Hardworking. An inspiration. A fighter. Everything I should have said this afternoon instead of being an ass."

Maria looked down, touched. She ducked her head, peeking at him and feeling inexplicably shy. "Well, you're forgiven."

Georg let go of her arm, lifting his hand to lightly take her chin between his fingers, tipping it upward so she was looking at him. His eyes were dark and searing. "I'd be an ungrateful wrench if I didn't tell you at least once…" And then he paused, and she saw his throat lift, as though either the words had caught, or he was swallowing the rest of them, and Maria would always wonder what he had been about to say. Instead, he drew her face to him, dipped his head toward her… and tenderly, helplessly, and ever so carefully, grazed his lips against hers.

She could hardly breathe.

He murmured against them. _Thank you_. A reverent breath against her mouth.

Slowly, he let his hand fall away, and he pulled back slightly. His eyes were molten, softer than she'd ever seen him look.

Maria trembled. She didn't know why it felt as if he were saying goodbye. There was something final, something regretful, something filled with yearning in that touch. The moment was inevitable – if not now, than later, and something in her chest ached at the thought. She looked into his eyes of liquid fire, but he made no move to touch her again. She didn't want to say that he was slipping away, because he'd never been hers to hold.

Somehow, after all these years, all the men she'd served… she was suddenly finding it hard to remember.

She sighed, pulling her hands reluctantly away from where they rested at his sides. Georg stepped back, giving her space, still looking at her with that gaze that was both intense and tender. Maria had a sudden, unbidden, and given the circumstances, not entirely welcome thought. As a lover, he would be equally gentle, equally considerate, and just as passionate.

She swallowed, batting aside the intrusive image. "It's still raining. You'd better stay the night."

His reply was warm, giving no indication he found her abrupt segue odd. "Are you trying to send me off to bed? You know, there was a cuckoo clock in my children's nursery that used to do that. Cuckoo, cuckoo," he mimicked in a singsong voice that made her huff in amusement.

"Absurd little bird." Maria gave his arm a playful swat, knowing well enough she was simply looking for a reason to touch him. "I never had a cuckoo clock. It was the steeple bells that told _me _when to go to bed."

They both glanced toward the clock that hung over her kitchenette. "It _is _late," Georg murmured, and she didn't miss the reluctant catch in his voice.

Could they have stood there all night?

Finally, Maria stepped back. Georg gave her a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He backed up several resolute steps, freeing her. Maria went to fetch him a throw and a pillow – the same one she offered him all those days ago.

He met her just outside her bedroom door and she handed them over. Their fingers brushed, and just like that, they were staring at each other, standing too close.

"Auf wiedersehen, Captain." She tried to lift her voice to above a whisper. It would have been too intimate, and she reminded herself that they had to say goodbye, after all.

"Adieu, Fraulein." He was as nonchalant as she was.

And yet they lingered.

"So long."

"Farewell."

"Au revior."

He held her with his eyes, and she committed him to memory that way – Georg, with his dark green shirt and trousers several inches too short, hair tousled and head bent close to her, the air thick with things they did not dare say.

"Goodnight, Maria." The words were a low rumble in his chest. He looked almost like he wanted to reach out and touch her cheek. He didn't – but she felt the phantom touch and couldn't help a small sigh.

"Goodnight."

* * *

A/N: Thank you for putting up with my delayed updates! This chapter took extra long, because it never existed in my plot sketch - it was merely a short, passing scene of Maria in the storm... but then somehow a very wet Georg barged in, started taking off his clothes, and then the chapter unfolded from there... ;)

Would love to know what you think about this one!


	7. The Water's Edge

A/N: warning - this chapter is borderline T... like, a very upper-limit of normal T.

* * *

The Water's Edge

Maria was attracted to him. Not just to the idea of him – Georg Von Trapp, captain, baron, Greek-island friend, someone who happened to speak the same language and understood grief as she did.

No, she was attracted to him _physically. _

That knowledge led to a very fitful night of sleep. Maria was everywhere, and the scent of her tunneled right into his subconscious, confused as it was by the whiff of pine from the cushion she'd leant him that reminded him of home and the Alps; so that one moment they were rambling in the mountains, and the next lying together in the meadow, the wind stealing his breath one moment, the heat of her too warm the next…

It was madness, and more than once that night he woke with a start, breaking through a dream that rushed heedlessly towards a conclusion that was both dishonorable and humiliating when he was spending the night in Maria's very home.

There was no mistaking the way her eyes had lingered, her breathing uneven, as he presented in various states of indecency throughout the evening. Georg hadn't given his appearance a second thought when he'd turned up at her door. He had been intent on laying bare his past, not baring… well, it'd only been his shirt, but that she'd been so _affected_…

Georg had always thought Maria impervious to him, had never turned the same charms on her he'd used on other women – had been very careful not to, in fact. Their flirtations had been casual, innocent. _She_ was innocent.

To find she might want him – might think of him the same way he'd frequently tried not to think of her… Georg felt like he'd been set on fire. He couldn't help but imagine her curves, under his hands, her soft mouth, her eyes, dark with want. This woman, who'd teased him, challenged him, inspired him even, had awoken something he'd been sure had been buried with his late wife. When, since then, had he wanted a woman with as much certainty, as much clarity, as he wanted Maria? When, since then, had he wanted a woman, without the haze of alcohol clouding his judgment?

But what was he to do? Georg would not turn her into another meaningless conquest. He would not have his way with her as if she were a barmaid looking for a night of fun, to be forgotten the next morning. He would not sail out with the knowledge that he'd taken something from her, when he could give nothing in return. He would not throw away what they had on a night of passion.

Georg thought about all he revealed yesterday; the decision to send the children away, the debacle with Elsa. It'd been a very long time since he'd talked about any of it. He'd confessed more than he'd meant to. Maria seemed to have that effect on him. She made him feel like he wasn't a terrible man, a terrible father. Like he could begin to build bridges with his children.

And where was he to start with the children? He'd have to give it some thought, where he'd go, what he'd do once he sailed out. He didn't want to startle his children, who were still boarding at the school during summer holidays. They'd been doing so well, academically and socially – perhaps they didn't miss him, anymore. Perhaps they considered school more of a home than the empty villa in Aigen. Where was an absent, neglectful father to start?

The door to Maria's bedroom opened. Georg turned to see her standing on the threshold – hair tousled, blinking sleepy eyes at him, and looking deliciously rumpled.

He almost had to force down a groan.

"Good morning."

Georg cleared his throat. "Good morning Maria."

"Did you sleep well?"

Georg couldn't honestly say he had, but he couldn't say he hadn't without telling her what had kept him up all night. He gave a noncommittal nod. "And you?"

"Oh – um, yes, just fine." Maria flushed. The sudden thought of what might have kept _her _up at night caused a rush of blood to his lower abdomen. If he didn't cool off soon, he might have to sit there all day.

Was she set on destroying them?

Maria shuffled her feet. "It's stopped raining."

Georg glanced toward the window. The morning sun was shining as though it'd forgotten last night's storm had ever happened. Perhaps he too, should try to forget what had happened last night. He gave another little nod.

"It looks like it'll be a nice, dry day," she tried again.

At this Georg had to grin. "I hope the same can be said of my clothes."

"Oh!" Maria's eyes grew round at the recollection. She flew to the bathroom, where he'd hung them last night. "They're dry!" She called to him.

"Thank God!" He called back. While he admired Maria's resourcefulness, he did not much care to wander the island in a set of old drapes. "Should we head down to the harbor to scrounge for breakfast? I don't want my cooking under question, again!" Georg rarely ate breakfast, preferring several cups of strong black coffee, but at least a long outdoors walk and breakfast at a public joint would keep his thoughts firmly in the realm of propriety.

Maria reappeared in the main room, offering him his articles of clothing. Her eyes brightened at the suggestion, all awkwardness forgotten, and he had to chuckle. Her enthusiasm for food nearly rivaled that of his always-hungry son Kurt. "There's a nice little fournos by the docks. They make the most delicious bougasta," she said, naming a traditional Greek pastry filled with custard.

"More delicious than a strudel?" He couldn't help but tease, eyes twinkling. Perhaps in the light of day, there was nothing to be worried about, after all.

She shook her head emphatically. "Especially not the apple ones."

He huffed in amusement. Maria excused herself to get ready, an exercise that impressively took only minutes. Georg was used to waiting up to an hour for women to freshen up in the morning. She found him sitting on the couch, clothes draped neatly over the armrest.

"You're not dressed!"

"I'll wait until you return from the church."

"Oh!" She looked at him blankly for a moment. Then she flushed, her expression one of mixed guilt and surprise. Had she ever forgotten before? "You're right, I – I suppose I should go."

Flustered, she fetched her straw hat, and with an awkward wave goodbye, let herself out of the apartment. After she had departed, Georg finally got dressed, freshening up in the tiny apartment bathroom. He gave her bed as wide a berth as he could – thankfully, it was neatly, almost primly made up, and he managed not to let his imagination get carried away.

Maria was not gone long, and she was pink and breathless as she came rushing back. Georg wondered if her trip up to the hill was a meditative this morning as it usually seemed to be.

Together, they wandered down to the town. The fishing boats in the distance were already hard at work. They passed the Siren, shuttered and closed for the morning. They passed women and men on the streets carrying woven produce baskets, their pace more leisurely than those of shoppers on the mainland. They passed a group of children dressed neatly in white shirts, looking like they were out on a school fieldtrip.

Adamas during the day certainly had a different feel from what he was used to coming up in the evenings – an old-fashioned, friendly little town.

Things became livelier as they neared the docks. The harbor was busy, with deck hands unloading supplies and goods and a steady stream of people coming and going from the boats. Maria showed him to the little bakery she'd gushed about, warmly greeting the store owners, a father and son pair, with a kiss on the cheek. Georg felt a stab of something unfamiliar in his gut as both men returned the gesture.

They sat on the small café-style veranda in front of the store. Maria ordered them both pastries, despite his protests, and he had to admit were quite good, especially paired with the strong, expertly made Greek coffee. They watched the activity at the docks, and Maria amused him by trying to guess what was inside the various cargo boxes. Traffic to the little bakery shop increased steadily during their meal, as the sleek island ferries began arriving with small groups of tourists.

A commotion near the wharf drew their attention – a strange, chime-like musical arpeggio that caused them both to turn. A small crowd had gathered by the side of the road where the dock met the dusty shore path. Georg caught a glimpse of a tall man dressed smartly in black and white formalwear, and a small table in front of him, lined with –

"Glasses!" Maria gasped.

She stood to get a better look, and Georg stood with her. He could see row after row of neatly lined wineglasses, and the man was coaxing a melody from the rims. The crowd clapped as the man finished his song, and took a smart bow. Traveling buskers, he realized, as people tossed coins into an open music case resting on the ground.

The man began another song, a whimsical rendition of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, and Maria looked over at him, excited and starry eyed.

Georg couldn't help but smile at her enthusiasm. "Shall we?" He offered his arm, she accepted without hesitation, and they strolled over to join the crowd.

Maria clasped her hands together, fully giving herself over to the magic of the glass player. Georg studied the set up, enjoying the performance himself. He had seen a glass musician before, at a fair he had once upon a time attended with his children. But this one seemed as much about performance as entertainment – the water in each glass precisely poured to perfect pitch, the sound of his glasses crisp yet decadent.

At the end of the song, Maria produced a coin and Georg a bill. He looked at her, and had to suppress a chuckle as she verily snatched it from his hand to place into the man's open case, before stepping back to his side as yet another song started. It was another Mozart, this time from one of his operas. True to its nature, midway through the piece a young woman materialized through the crowd, dressed in opera garb, singing over his riff with her polished voice. The man started, looking surprised, then infuriated, although it was plainly part of the act, another piece of this traveling musical ensemble. The crowd laughed, cheering on the woman as the glass player looked on in exaggerated sulkiness as she took over his song.

The woman, too, was exceptional for a street musician. She had a wide range, her timbre rich and evocative. Perhaps he had forgotten, living among the Austrian elite, that true art could be found everywhere. But when was the last time he'd stopped to appreciate it?

He glanced sidelong toward Maria, and was shocked to see her cheeks wet with tears. She had a hand pressed against her lips, as though she was afraid she'd break down into sobs at any moment. Alarmed, Georg reached out to touch her shoulder. She turned to him, damp eyes filled with such pain he almost took a step back. Instead, he slid his arm protectively across her shoulders, leaning her into him, shielding her from whatever in their surroundings had caused her to react so viscerally.

"What is it?" He murmured, barely audible over the singer's trill.

Maria shook her head, the rest of her body shaking with it.

What was this all about? He had seen her angry, had seen her sad, had seen her wistful – but never helpless, never devastated. She had never given any indication that there was a part of her that was so vulnerable, so fragile that some innocuous thing about this sunny day by the wharf would break her.

Maria buried her face against him. Keeping an arm around her, Georg steered her backward, away from the musicians, from the crowd. The docks and roads were loud and busy, typical of a port-town at the height of the day. He glanced at the top of Maria's head with a worried frown, then made a quick decision, and proceeded to guide her through the traffic. Her feet followed unquestioningly, until they found themselves on the gangway leading to his yacht.

Georg led her up onto the deck, keenly aware it was her first time on his boat. She'd never had to reason to be, really, since he'd only ever brought women back to – He shook his head, returning to the distraught Maria at his side. He brought her around to the bow, where there was a small seating area. The Mediterranean sun was so strong his cushions were dry despite the overnight storm. Georg sat, tugging Maria down with him, and wrapped his arm around her. Silently, he smoothed her hair, rubbed her shoulders, while she seemed completely obvious to him and to where she was as she cried – mourned, really – body shaking with silent sobs that occasionally escaped as a muffled cry.

Did this have something to do with Pierre? Or Johannes? Georg racked his mind, wondering what tragedy in her history had triggered such a complete break down.

It was quiet here. There was no crowd, no bustling activity, and eventually, the rhythmic lapping of the waves and gentle lull of the boat seemed to have an effect on her. Her sobs slowed, her shaking stopped. Maria raised her head enough to glance around at her surroundings.

"Are we on your boat?" The question was punctuated with hiccups.

"Yes."

Maria didn't immediately respond, but blinked red, puffy eyes as she took in the yacht. She sniffled, and silently he handed her his kerchief. She rubbed her eyes and dried her tears.

"Thank you," she said in a small voice, not looking at him, busying her hands as she folded the cloth into small squares.

"I wish I could have done more," Georg told her honestly.

She looked up at him. "I got your shirt wet."

His lips twitched. "Don't worry, not wet enough to wring out." Then he paused, wondering if his presence was keeping her from coming to terms with what she had just been through. "I have plenty more here, anyway. I'll just be a moment."

Georg went into his cabin to put on a new shirt, deliberately taking longer than he needed to. He stopped in the galley, before returning to her with two glasses of water.

Maria did look quite a bit calmer. She gazed out toward the horizon as she sipped at her glass.

"That could have been me." When she finally spoke, her voice sounded small and distant.

For a moment, Georg was confused. He thought back to the crowds, the performers. Did Maria harbor secret fantasies of becoming a street musician?

"She had a beautiful voice."

"Maria, you have a beautiful voice."

She looked at him with a sad smile. "I used to sing… a lot."

Georg blinked. Maria did sing a lot. In the hills, anyways, when she felt relaxed and free.

"My parents loved music. Singing was always a part of my life. My father used to tell everyone I learned my do-re-mi's before I learned my a-b-cs."

He smiled at the image of a toddler Maria, but couldn't shake the sense that she was hinting at an idea he was missing completely.

"Music got me through my hardest years as a child. When I had music, I never felt as though I was truly alone. I was drawn to my calling because of music, before I became a governess. In my previous life, I must have been a singer." She shrugged a bit ruefully.

"I believe it," Georg said truthfully. "If you had wanted, there would be a place for you on the grandest stages in the world."

It had been the wrong thing to say. The corners of her lips turned down, and she looked away. When her gaze returned to him, she was pale. "It was not long after we arrived on Milos. We… we were out for a boat ride, with Philip, one of our fishermen. We were going to be married, and Pierre – well, we were both making an effort to get to know each other, I mean, as something more than employer and governess."

Georg nodded slowly, curious but bewildered as to why she was suddenly telling him this. Maria didn't often speak about her time with her employer-turned-fiancée.

"We weren't far off the coast – just around the South bend of the island at the rock caves – but when the storm came, we couldn't make it back to port, and there was nowhere to dock."

Fear had crept into her voice, and Georg looked down to see her hands clenched in her lap. He could see the storm in his mind, perhaps as bad as the one that had descended upon them yesterday, perhaps worse. He felt the gale, could see the waves, and his chest clenched in trepidation for the young woman beside him. He reached over, covering her small fists with his hands, but it didn't feel like enough.

"Philip tried to bring the boat back. I don't know how close we came, tossed in every direction. I'd – I'd never seen waves like that before. Pierre had thrown the life-ring around me, and we were holding on, but I had to – I was going to be sick. One minute I was throwing up, and the next minute I was in the water. I don't know if it was a wave, or if the boat had listed…"

Georg wasn't able to mask his sharp inhale. His hands tightened around hers. He had been there – unable to control his vessel, losing men to the terrifying power of nature. This story didn't end in tragedy, he reminded himself. Maria was here, alive and well in front of him. He pulled her a little closer, but doubted she noticed.

"I – I could swim a little, but the waves were so… so high…" Tears were streaming down her cheeks again. He dabbed at them with his handkerchief, but again, she seemed not to notice. "The last thing I remember is Philip in the water, trying to reach me. Pierre was hanging onto the railing, shouting something, and I – I don't remember anything after that. That was the last time I saw Pierre."

Her voice broke, and Georg gathered her against him. "Oh Maria…" he murmured, stroking her hair. He'd known Pierre had died in an accident. He never imagined it was out at sea, or that Maria had been there – had almost drowned herself.

"I don't know how Philip kept me from going under. He tells me the storm was short, and when it was over, some of the other fishermen spotted us and brought us to shore. He said… he said they thought I was dead. Stavros tells me I was lucky – the doctor and the paramedic were both at the Siren, weathering out the storm, and they rushed to the docks with they heard shouting. They saved me; forced the water from my lungs so I could breathe."

Georg sat there, holding Maria in his arms, hardly daring to breathe himself. He'd had no idea. No idea how close he'd come to never meeting her. How close he'd come to losing her before they'd even met. And the thought felt suddenly terrifying.

Maria sighed, the sound a shudder. "But… I don't really know what happened. The doctor says my body had gone into shock. It had gone without air for so long, it was shutting down. I wasn't able to breathe on my own, and even my heart was giving out. They resuscitated me, put a tube down my throat, and they didn't know if I would make it. But in the end I did. I had some broken ribs, some scarring in my throat, and I was in a lot of pain – but I was alive."

Georg released the breath he was holding in a soft hiss. He thought back to her extensive first aid kit. Now he knew – it had been the leftovers of a tragedy. He wondered briefly why she'd never talked about it with him, before realizing it was because she'd never talked about it, at all.

Her voice was calmer with she next spoke, like she'd made her peace with the inevitable. "I was in the clinic for weeks. I was there when they found Pierre. When they buried him. I was there when they brought Johannes to say goodbye."

"Maria, I'm so sorry…" He had never anticipated the depth of her loss.

"…And I was there when I realized I couldn't speak."

"What?"

"I – I had no voice. The doctor said there was swelling and scarring in my throat, but with time things might get better. It was only for a few days… but I felt that I had died too. That the best part of me was gone. Oh, Georg – I'm so ashamed."

"Oh no – no Maria, no." He shook his head repeatedly, in disbelief, in denial.

"Over time my voice did come back. I don't think I helped it much, at first – I was so… reluctant to speak. I had no one to speak _to_. But eventually, I could speak. I could even sing a little. But it wasn't the same. It will never be the same."

Georg sat there, Maria still in the circle of his arms, feeling dazed, blindsided by her revelation. It was, he realized, that loss that had first drawn him to her. He remembered the sadness he felt, listening to her play her guitar at the Siren, picking through Edelweiss. It had been a dirge, a tribute, a memory.

And hesitantly he asked, "Has everything been done? I mean…"

Maria shook her head, the movement tickling his shoulder. "I – I don't know. They tried everything." He felt her sigh. "I'm just glad to be alive."

He felt her relax against him. His chest felt tight, an aching pressure, like something within straining to get free. "The sea has been in my blood since I was a boy… and yet, I could hate it for what it did to you."

He felt her nuzzle into him. "Don't, Georg. I don't want you to hate it."

Maria tilted her head to look at him, and her eyes were very bright. "It's in the past, and I've made my peace with it. I don't want it to hurt you."

They stared at each other for a beat, perhaps several, and then, his mouth fell upon hers, and she was pressing back, hard, as though something had broken free, as though they sensed that that life was fragile, uncertain, and they couldn't let this moment go unclaimed.

Her arms wrapped around his neck, and his fingers knotted through her hair, tipping her head back, learning the shape of her mouth, the taste of her. A sound escaped her that was part sigh, part whimper, his groan a rumble deep in his throat. He cupped the back of her head to bring her closer. It wasn't close enough. He leaned back into the cushions, pulling her with him so she was flush against his side. The heat of her mouth, the softness of her breasts, the swell of her hips against his – Georg could lose himself in all of her, but of one thing he was certain. He'd wanted her for weeks. Wanted to know how she tasted, how she felt in his hands, how she sounded when she found her pleasure.

All these weeks he'd kept his distance, been a gentleman, ignored the unspeakable ways she'd shown up in his dreams, settled for innocent hand-holding and chaste kisses and almost-kisses… and he was no better than a rakish sailor lusting after a maiden. Even now, as he held her and stroked her back, her sides, her hips, and felt a fierce tenderness for this woman in his arms, he wanted to mark her, claim her, take her right then and there on the bow of his yacht.

She moaned his name into his mouth, bringing all of him to attention. With her hands, she explored his shoulders, his back, his chest, her body yielding, responding, surrendering. There was no reservation, no fear, nothing held back.

Her back arched when he cupped her breasts, her breath a gasp that could have been pain, could have been pleasure, as he took a nipple between his fingers, and then the other. He found spots that made her shiver, the soft hollow above her hips, the dip between her torso and thigh, the delicate spot behind her knee when he brought her leg up over his hip. He ran his fingers along her stocking until he reached the elastic, the place where the silkiness of the material met the soft heat of her skin, and he felt his body burn, felt himself straining for her.

He lingered there, kissing a trail along her jaw down to her collarbone. Her head was thrown back, lips parted, panting, allowing him access everywhere he touched. And Georg understood that she wasn't going to stop him. She would give herself to him. Let him claim her. Let him be the first.

The thought shook him to his core, brought him out of his primal lust with something close to a gasp. His hand stilled, and he propped himself against the cushions with his free arm. She tilted her face up to him, eye closed, seeking more. Her lips were swollen, the swells of her breasts shining with sweat where her blouse had been pulled loose in their frantic touches. He kissed her eyelids, her nose, grazed her jaw. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so inexplicable protective, so concerned as to where things went _from here_.

"Wait, Maria," he mumbled, breathless, heart thundering at how fast things had gotten out of hand.

Her eyes fluttered open. "Georg? Is something wrong?"

"If we don't stop now – we're not going to stop."

"Stop?" Her gaze was hazy, clouded with desire.

"Maria. I want you."

She blinked, her inhale a hum against his neck.

He freed his hand from her skirts. He took her hand, idly placing her palm against his chest, right over his racing heart. "If we are to continue… I need to hear you say it."

She blinked again, her forehead creasing slightly.

Georg twined his fingers with hers, guiding them to his lips. She watched as he brushed light kisses over her knuckles. "I need you to be sure. I don't want you to regret getting carried away."

There was a moment of silence, his lips continuing to dance across her fingers as their gaze locked. Maria looked down, but not before he saw the first flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. It was enough to cool him off, to be sure of the way forward.

"You don't have to say yes," he murmured, gently tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. He didn't immediately push himself away, content to lie next to her, feeling his breathing even and his heart slow.

Eventually, he pushed himself upright with his hands. Slowly, she followed. They were still very close, and when her eyes flickered up to his, and it was a shy, seeking glance – almost more vulnerable, more intimate than it'd been when she let him touch her. "I didn't want to stop." Her cheeks flushed scarlet.

"I know." Oh, did he know.

"That was…I was… I've never felt – " Maria stammered, looking away, clearly embarrassed, "I've never… uhm… wanted – let myself want…"

"You've never let yourself want a man?" He picked through the pieces and finished the sentence for her.

Mutely, she shook her head.

Georg exhaled slowly. This conversation was affecting him strangely - his awareness of just how aroused he'd made her was enough to stimulate him very much, were it not for how gentle he wanted to be with her. He scooted slightly away, putting a little bit of space between them. "Desire is not shameful, Maria."

Her mouth twisted in a half smile. "I was taught that lust is a sin."

Georg couldn't contain his surprise. This fervent, receptive woman, believed carnal pleasure was a sin? "But you were going to be married. Didn't you think that it would one day get… physical?"

"But marriage – marriage is sanctified by God," she mumbled, her head dropping in shame.

His lips twitched, although she couldn't see. It would have sounded prudish, were it not for the very reluctant way she was saying it. And the way she had come alive under his hands, eager and responsive. He was sure that one day, she would make her future husband a very lucky man.

"Maria, you have a right to your beliefs, you don't need to feel ashamed." He pursed his lips. "You've just had the unfortunate luck of falling in with a rake. You know my reputation."

A reputation he'd managed to keep in check around her for fear of losing control as he just had.

"I don't know what I believe," Maria ventured, voice small. "When I was at the Abbey… I didn't expect I'd ever have to think about these things."

"When you were _where_?" Georg bolted upright, his eyes flying to hers in shock.

Maria blinked uncertainly. "The Abbey. Nonnberg Abbey. Before I was a governess, I was a postulate."

He could only stare. Maria, the untamed, for whom the mountains and the wilderness would always be home – had been a postulate. Maria, the cabaret dancer, the barmaid – had been a postulate. Maria, the nearly-married, had been a postulate. Maria, the passionate, the inquisitive, the playful. How was it possible?

"You were going to become a nun?" He blurted, in the most unhelpful manner.

She nodded. "I thought it was what I wanted. I'd use to go down the mountains near the Abbey, climb a tree, and see the Sisters working, singing on the way to vespers. When I entered the Abbey, it became my home, my family – my life. But the Reverend Mother thought I should… go out into the world for a time, to see if it was really the life I wanted before I took my vows, and so she sent me to work for Pierre. She wasn't certain I was prepared for a life in the Abbey."

Thank God for the Mother Abbess. Georg knew her well, respected her tremendously, and thought she had never made a better call.

"You never told me."

"I haven't told anyone. Who could ever imagine a barmaid who used to be a postulate?"

Was it something the former postulate herself didn't even want to think about?

"Did you change your mind when Pierre – erhm…" It was all too strange to consider.

"I'd already realized by then that perhaps I wasn't a good fit for the Abbey. I couldn't follow the rules – couldn't hold my tongue when I needed to, couldn't stop singing when I wasn't supposed to, couldn't be anywhere on time when I was asked to be… I kept getting into trouble. And I found I… I _liked _being away from the Abbey. I loved spending time with Johannes, loved being outdoors, exploring new places, trying new things…"

Georg suppressed a sigh of relief. At least she had, in her own time, come to the same conclusion.

"But I still clung to the idea that I could be a nun, and it was almost impossible to give that up when… when I agreed to be married. I knew I could never return to the Abbey. And then working at a place where I entertain men and serve them drinks… oh, I tried so hard not to turn my back on God."

Is that what she did up at the cemetery every morning? Pray to God and try to atone for what she imagined were her sins?

Suddenly, he wondered what she would say to God tomorrow – whether she would ask forgiveness for how much she wanted him. Georg felt no small measure of relief that he had stopped them when he did. If he had taken her virtue, she would never forgive herself.

"Maria." He shook his head, trying to clear it. "Your work at the Siren is a testament of your will to live – I don't think God is so unreasonable as not to recognize that." Her eyebrows lifted dubiously, and he continued after a brief hesitation. "You know, I once heard your Reverend Mother say, that when God closes a door, somewhere he opens a window."

Georg could hardly believe that of all people, he was the one comforting her about God.

But Maria's eyes sought his, hungry for validation. Almost timidly, she laced her fingers with his. "And this is the window?"

He let himself wonder for a moment what exactly she was referring to, before nodding. He was rewarded with a watery smile.

"Come." He kissed the top of her head, briefly and reassuringly. He stood up, pulling her with him, before he could reconsider the options. "Let me make you something to eat."

As Maria followed him into the galley, making no comment about his culinary abilities, a shocking thought entered his mind – a jumble of snippets in time and half-formed images.

If Maria had been a postulate at Nonnberg Abbey, _she _might have been the one the Mother Abbess sent him (how many requests from widowers did the woman get, anyway?)

Mari could have been _his _governess.

And then – Georg almost had to pause against the doorframe for support – how differently things might have gone.

* * *

Georg found himself back at the Siren that evening.

He had taken Maria home late in the afternoon. She had her second of two nights off, and after the day they'd had, they'd both come to the unsaid conclusion she should spend it alone. Georg joked about getting a good night's sleep, and Maria gave him an easy laugh. He tried not to think about how different things seemed now, from when they'd left together that very morning. How… innocent, how _charming_, his attraction to her had been.

Before he learned that she had almost died, almost lost her life to the sea that he'd always loved.

Before he learned that she could drive him to madness; that under her innocence was a woman full of raw sensuality, who would give herself to lovemaking with wild abandon.

Before he learned that the woman he'd been about to take right there on his deck had been a former postulate.

Scheisse.

Would he ever be able to spend time on his boat without thinking of her, of what had happened (and what had not) that morning?

Georg didn't want a drink, precisely. He just needed a distraction. And he wanted to speak with Stavros.

_Stavros tells me I was lucky – the doctor and the paramedic were both at the Siren, weathering out the storm…_

Unluckily for him, the bar was packed tonight. Georg sat at his table all evening, cognizant of how much he was drinking – unable to forget the habit had worried Maria – only half paying attention to his surroundings.

In the wee hours of the morning, the crowd finally thinned. The cabaret had ended and the music had stopped. Sailors were slowly departing, some to spend the night with their chosen women, others back to their boats to sleep off their alcohol. Only a few stragglers remained, and like him, kept to themselves. Workers were starting to clean the tables and mop the floors.

Stavros finally made his way over. He'd been by earlier with a hearty greeting, loud and gregarious, master of a chaotic domain. Now he seemed more genial, without the crowd to bolster him.

"Late night, Captain?" He perched on a stool next to the table.

"Looks that way, doesn't it?"

"Sometimes it takes this – " he waved a hand around at the bar " – to soothe a troubled mind."

Georg had no idea if he was referring to the alcohol itself or the general tavern scene, and was in no frame of mind to ask. They watched the workers clean for a few silent moments.

"Maria tells me you knew her before she started working here," Georg said abruptly.

Stavros peered at him curiously. "Yes. Is there anyone who didn't know Maria? _Fraulein Maria_?" He mimicked her girlish, Austrian accent. "She used to come down to the shore all the time with her young charge… what was his name again – let me see…"

"Johannes."

"Yes! That very one. Sweet little boy, with his even sweeter young miss." Stavros chuckled gruffly. "They visited the bakery often, but Johannes was not above charming a lemonade off me every now and then. She was as delightful and happy as a little lark, flitting about everywhere – it was like getting hit upside the head by a little Greek Eros."

Georg couldn't help but chuckle at the imagery.

"She was very musical, your Maria." Georg ignored the adjective, but Stavros needed no encouragement to keep talking. "She went everywhere with that guitar of hers. You could always hear her before you see her… and her voice, O Thee mou!" _Oh my God. _

What kind of a voice must she have had to have this hardened, gruff man utterly enraptured?

And then Stavros shook his head sadly. "Did she tell you? About the accident?"

Georg nodded, and the two men shared a heavy glance. "Yes. I had no idea."

"I'm glad." The barkeeper didn't seem so cavalier, now. "Maria is very… private. She wasn't always that way – oh no. Only since the accident." He gestured around them. "I have been trying to get her out of her shell for a long time."

They were silent a moment. Georg felt sad on her behalf. Maria had had so much taken away from her. Stavros gave a loud sigh, and Georg glanced at him. Despite his views of the barkeeper, Georg felt grateful that in his own way, Stavros had cared about her, tried to watch out for her.

"You helped her," he said out loud. "You gave her a job. A reason to keep going."

Stavros shrugged. "I don't think there was a person on the island who knew her story that didn't want to help. She wouldn't let them. I think she only accepted the work because she needed the money."

Georg hesitated, then decided not to tell the other man just what Maria thought of working here. "It is hard for her, this job," he ventured instead.

"She is very good at it. Even though she no longer sings as she used to, she is still very musical. And she is able to please my most stubborn customers."

Georg frowned, the idea not sitting well with him in the least.

"When I learned you are from Austria, I hoped she and you would get along." Stavros waved his mug toward him, and he somewhat reluctantly raised his own to meet it. He doubted he would ever fully come to appreciate Stavros' methods, but his heart was in the right place – as Maria had once told him.

"You were not afraid I would take her from you?"

He watched as Stavros downed the last of his drink. He got up, and shrugged a little wistfully, a gesture that looked odd on the man. "I do not expect her to stay forever. In fact, I would hope she does not."

And with that, the bar keeper gave him a small salute, before walking away to the bar.

Georg remained at his table, staring into his empty pint glass. Stavros was right. _He _had been right, although he had offended her by saying it. Maria deserved more than this – _was_ more than this. She was not a barmaid, anymore than she was a postulate or a neglected child. For her, life was only beginning. She deserved all of it; deserved to be swept away by the worthiest of suitors and the grandest of adventures. He knew she still mourned the loss of her voice, but Georg did not doubt this woman of many talents, who captivated hearts wherever she went.

It was just a shame she had to captivate this old sailor, who had nothing to offer and nothing to give. An old sailor whose time on the island was nearly up – and yet Georg knew that pulling the anchor this time around would feel like an impossible task. Where would he go? Would he be on the other side of the world, and still be thinking of Milos?

Georg stayed at the Siren long past closing – only he and Stavros remained. He nudged his empty glass idly around the table, like a piece in a game of chess where he had already lost. Stavros sat behind the bar, drinking a scotch and periodically scrutinizing him with a weary, knowing gaze.

By the time Georg walked out the door of the Siren, he knew what he wanted to do. Perhaps he did, after all, have something to give.

* * *

A/N (2): The idea for the loss of Maria's voice was drawn from Julie's own history - hopefully with the understanding that I am in no way making light of what happened to our beloved actress. (I just found her story so inspirational, both before and after her surgery.)

Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story so far! (I'm sorry I haven't replied to all the reviews - this behemoth chapter really took over all my writing time!) Would love to hear what you thought about this chapter. xx


	8. The Island

The Island

It was coming to the end of summer, but one would never know it from spending the day on Milos. The afternoon sun beat down upon the rocky island, so it became impossible to tell if the heat was coming from above or below. The sand scorched under her feet. Even the normally refreshing breeze was languid, the salty air heavy and pressing in around her.

Slowly, she walked the length of the beach, back toward the dark blip in the sand that was her slippers and sunhat. The heat was searing enough it created a vision of waves in the air, an illusion of water in the sand. It must have been the heat, for whenever she looked out toward the sea, she thought she could see a sleek grey yacht sailing on the water.

She didn't stop. She had seen it often enough now that she no longer felt her breath catch or her heart leap in her chest. She didn't know why she continued walking along the shores of the island as often as she did – it was madness, relief, and torture.

She wasn't waiting. Not really. After all, he never did say he was coming back.

It had been weeks, now. Georg had been gone almost as long as he'd been on the island.

The night they'd spent in her apartment, waiting out the storm, Maria had not been wrong to feel that he was saying goodbye. Only, in the intervening day between that night and his departure, he'd turned her life upside down. And she'd let him – let him comfort her, let him get too close, let him sweep her away and returned what he offered with all she had.

The image of him poised over her, cherishing her, claiming her, surrendering to her – it was seared into her memory.

Maria had woken that next morning, chased from her heady and exhilarating dream clearly carried over from their time together on the boat by a sense of frustration, of something unfinished and possibly unattainable. She'd felt an overwhelming sense of wanting, of rebelling at having to _wait_. Throughout the day, the wanting, the waiting, became more urgent, heightened, almost frantic, when he didn't show up on her balcony after her return from the cemetery. For the first time on weeks, she prepared for her shift at the Siren without having seen him all day.

But she didn't want to believe it. Her eyes searched for him when she arrived at the Siren. His usual table was empty. It wasn't until Stavros intercepted her as she was getting ready for the show, giving her a piece of paper that had been folded neatly into an envelop, that Maria felt something give. Her name was written on the top in a script she had come to recognize too well.

It had been inevitable. She shouldn't have been surprised, should have been prepared. She shouldn't have felt like something was crashing down around her. She shouldn't have been so disoriented as to bolt out of the tavern and down to the docks - shouldn't have felt the need to see it with her own eyes, the empty berth where his yacht had docked for so many days.

For Georg had stated very simply and very clearly in his note that something had come up which was taking him away. And most regretfully he had to say farewell.

It should not have brought her to her knees. And yet it did.

It should not have brought tears to her eyes. And yet it did.

Georg would have left sooner or later. She just didn't know until that moment that it would feel so unbearable.

And Maria wept, keeping vigil alone on the docks for so long she didn't bother going back to the Siren when she finally stumbled home, eyes stinging and legs stiff.

But it was only the once. Maria never cried over him again. She couldn't say she _grieved_ for Captain Von Trapp – for what was there to grieve over? She couldn't even say that she felt sad. There only remained a fierce ache in her chest, which sometimes made breathing feel like fire. Maria supposed it would ease up over time.

As much as she didn't want to think about it, she couldn't help but wonder why he had left with such urgency in the middle of the night. Had something truly come up? Something with his children perhaps? She wanted to believe it, because it was the only explanation that brought her any measure of comfort.

Or perhaps… oh, but it was painful to consider, she could hardly breathe!

Georg had left her apartment with her that last morning downright cheery, and had returned uptight and quiet in the evening. She had trusted him. Wanted him. Left all her cards on the table, despite her best judgment. Had she been too much, or not enough?

Or was he, yet again, running away? Maria knew now, beyond a doubt, that he had wanted her, that day on his yacht. His kisses had been desperate, his touches marked, and he'd looked at her like he'd been about to devour her. But Captain Von Trapp, she also knew, was in the business of pushing away what he wanted. Needed. Deserved.

She would never know. Perhaps he himself didn't quite know.

But at least he could have said goodbye.

Well, he did say goodbye. In his note. What else had she expected?

And so Maria went back to her daily routine on the island – for what else was there to do? She marked her days with her daily pilgrimage to the church, and her evening shifts at the Siren. Stavros said nothing about the Captain who had vanished in the middle of the night, but she sensed that he watched her while she wasn't looking. He was as demanding as ever, but she found she didn't mind. Maria played her guitar with single-minded determination. She was brighter than ever before, her banter wittier, her dancing wilder.

Maria threw herself into life, as though out to prove that it could go on. She didn't want to say she was salvaging it, because what, after all, had she lost?

Maria had never before made friends at the Siren. She was friendly with the girls, who in turn had always been nice to her, the sweet little guitar player with the tragic past, who never competed over the availability of men. But there was a sense of sisterhood among them, confiding, advising, supporting each other in this chaotic industry, spending their days painting their nails or getting tanned on the beach. Maria had never felt like she fit in, and did not try to, if she were honest.

Things seemed to change in the days after Georg's departure. Maria did not know if she herself had changed, or whether the girls were taking pity on her, going out of their way to keep her spirits up. The night after she had run out on them before the cabaret had even started was the hardest, the night after she learned he was gone. Maria worked at the bar, feeling like everybody knew, like everyone was judging her for being too foolish, too naïve. But to her surprise, they seemed to rally around her. Jenny, who was bubbly and nice to everybody, stood in line next to her during the dance, and gave her a nudge on the shoulder and a friendly wink before going on stage. Netta, the most reserved of all the girls after Maria, helped her out at the bar – even though Maria kept herself so busy the other girl didn't have much to do besides keep the counter spotlessly clean.

One shift, a patron asked for a cocktail, which reminded her so suddenly of Georg she went rigid on the spot. The first time they'd met, he'd ordered her a drink with the same ingredients, telling her it reminded him of her dress. That evening, she had been wearing the dirndl she had made for herself when he heard her play on the stage. That evening, they had talked long into the night. That evening, they had kissed by the shores of the Aegean. Maria froze, and the customer peered strangely at her, wondering why she suddenly looked like she'd seen a ghost.

It was Cayenne, loud, spirited Cayenne, who swooped in. "You do _not _want that, mon cheri," she told him in her suggestive French accent, sliding coyly into the booth next to him. "You want an island drink. An ouzo."

The man, completely distracted, nodded agreeably. Cayenne gave her a quick, reassuring nod before turning back to him, allowing Maria to escape into the back dressing room.

Even Cayenne's comment about the ouzo triggered memories of sharing drinks and Georg's low, teasing voice. Maria took a long moment to recover herself. She could not let that happen again.

The nights were hard, but at least she would get home so exhausted she tumbled straight into bed and into an immediate, dreamless sleep. It was a relief, and the alternative was far, far worse. When Georg appeared in her dreams, she felt disoriented for days.

The days were harder. She just couldn't stay home, so the long stretches of days saw her walking like a lunatic along the beach, trying to think nothing at all. For when she did, no matter which direction her thoughts took, it would inevitably all come rushing back.

So when the girls invited her for lunch one day, she agreed readily.

But as Maria reached the little cafe by the docks at the appointed time, she balked. It was absurd, how navigating the small island felt like a minefield these days. How could simply standing at the threshold of the small bakery brought back such vivid images of her breakfast with Georg, of the day that followed? Their last day together. If that morning on the boat had never happened – would he have taken off? Would she miss him like she did?

It was too late for ifs.

She spotted the bright red of Cayenne's dyed hair and the light blonde of Jenny's long locks – Californian sun-kissed, she'd heard the girl refer to them – before they saw her, already seated at a table for four on the patio. Not the same table she had sat at before with _him_, but close by.

Maria sucked in a breath, just as Jenny looked up and saw her, giving her a cheerful wave.

Could she pull herself together yet again? It felt exhausting. Felt pointless. For a moment, she wanted nothing more than to run back to her apartment, and bury herself under the covers for the rest of the day.

Maria wavered, until a slim arm slipping through hers caused her to jump in surprise. "Good morning to you too." Netta appeared at her elbow, dark hair pulled into a loose bun. She was smiling, and Maria managed a wobbly one in return.

"Are you alright?" Netta looked her over in concern. Her wide, dark eyes were mild and gentle, belying a wicked wit and dry British humour.

Maria hesitated. She _wanted _to be alright. And she knew from past experiences that if she pretended long enough, tried hard enough, one day it would be.

The other girl's eyes softened, as though she understood. "Come, the others already have a table. Sit with us for awhile."

And so Maria did. The girls welcomed her warmly, and there was no expectation for her to keep up her end of the chatter. At first, it was an effort just to listen, but she soon found herself relaxing in their company. The girls talked cheerfully about the new clothing shop that had opened up in town, and the swimwear they had glimpsed in the storefront.

Netta shook her head vehemently. "You ladies go ahead. I never want to shop for another bathing suit again in my life."

"She has a suitcase full of them," Jenny reported, and Netta nodded in confirmation, although she didn't look enthused by the idea.

"Really?" Cayenne and Maria asked together. Maria herself had only learned the basics of swimming as a lifesaving measure, and never much liked it. Living in landlocked Austria her entire life, she never had reason to own a swimsuit.

"I used to work on a cruise line. It was part of the ensemble."

"What was _that _like?" Cayenne asked, eyes wide. Cruise ships were still a novelty for Milos' residents. They never docked, but the big, luxury vessels passing by on the horizon still caught the eye of anyone looking.

Netta shrugged. "It was alright. It was either that or settle down and be married back home in London, and I wasn't ready for _that_."

"Wait – you got away from home on a cruise ship, to come _here?" _

"I worked for three years. But then my employer changed. He – he wasn't a good man." She shuddered, wrapping her arms around herself as thought trying to ward of the memories. Cayenne and Jenny exchanged dark looks, while Maria, who was seated beside her, automatically reached over to grasp her arm. "I got off the first stop I could. I don't regret it."

Jenny shook her head. "Powerful men are such _creeps_."

"Hey, what's this vitriol about men, now?" Theo, the son of the bakery owner, approached their table, serving tray in hand. Tanned with a thatch of thick, dark hair, he looked more like a sailor than a baker.

Jenny smiled sweetly at him. "It's so hard to find a good one."

"That's because you haven't been looking in the right places," Theo deadpanned. Cayenne rolled her eyes, while Maria hid a smile behind her hand. There was something quite charming about their coy banter.

Jenny shook her head, heaving a sigh. "There are no gentlemen left in the world."

Theo set down their plates with a flourish, moving around the table with ease. "Maybe in America," he told her. "Here, we are _all_ gentlemen."

He caught Maria's eye, and she returned his broad, approachable smile. She liked Theo – had known him quite well, once upon a time, when a little boy with the sweetest tooth had brought her down to the bakery almost every day.

"_And _we cook," he informed Jenny, causing her and Netta both to giggle. Maria missed her response, and the rest of their flirtatious exchange, lost in memories of the way Georg had cooked for her, the way she'd teased him about it.

"Enjoy your lunch, _despoinidas_." With a gallant bow, Theo backed away from their table, flashing his white teeth in a smile. If anyone noticed Maria frozen to her chair yet miles away, nobody commented on it.

Cayenne was looking after him, half in exasperation, half in amusement. "Remind me again why you two haven't gotten together?"

Jenny shook her head. "We can't. He's the sweetest boy. The kind you take home to meet your parents."

She sighed. Cayenne and Netta shared a significant look, leaving Maria wondering what item of significance she'd missed.

"He can be your sweet boy, without meeting your parents," Cayenne suggested helpfully.

Jenny only rolled her eyes, and turned to Maria. "I'm not on speaking terms with my family," she explained matter-of-factly.

"Oh." Still stumbling out of her fog, Maria struggled for a response. Was having a troubled past a prerequisite for working at the Siren?

"My parents were dancers," Jenny continued. "Well, my mother was a dancer, and my father was manager of a ballet company in New York. They wanted nothing more than for me to become a dancer. I trained all my life in classical ballet. They were thrilled – had a grand party and everything – when I was accepted into Julliard. I was well into my second year before I realized I hated it. Ballet had never been for me, and so I quit. My parents threatened to cut me off if I did – and they did."

Maria's instinct was to offer sympathy, but it was clear Jenny was happy here. She couldn't help but feel a stab of sadness, as she always did when she heard stories of families torn apart. She'd never had much of one, and the concept of it was precious, but she could understand Jenny's desire for freedom, for independence, for fun, when her life had never been hers to lead.

"I miss them though, sometimes," Jenny added.

This Maria could definitely appreciate. She nodded. "I lost my parents when I was young, too."

Jenny nodded back slowly. "I heard you worked as a governess before you came to the island?"

Netta cleared her throat while Maria hesitated. "She was as a governess here in Milos, too. Her employer died in the boating accident during the storm, remember?"

Jenny was the only one of the girls to arrive on the island after her, after Maria had already started working at the Siren. Everybody else knew her story, more or else – she'd never had to tell it before, except to Georg.

The other girl looked mortified. "Oh, that's right – I'm so sorry, Maria. I shouldn't have said anything. Please don't let it ruin your day."

Maria shook her head. It was impossible to doubt Jenny's sincerity. "It's alright. Really, I don't mind. I suppose I just haven't had much practice talking about it – and the more you talk about it, the easier it gets."

"That's true," Netta said solemnly, while Jenny nodded.

"Is that also true of that Captain of yours?"

"Cayenne!" Jenny shushed, looking aghast. "Too soon!"

Cayenne made a face at her. "So says the girl who showed up to my apartment crying at two in the morning."

"That was different – that was a _fling_. Not someone I actually…" Her eyes flickered in Maria's direction, and she fumbled, "… cared about?"

"Maria," Netta said gently, "do you want to talk about it?"

Maria gave Netta a small, grateful smile, and another for Cayenne and Jenny to let them know she appreciated their concern and wasn't upset, however they tried to go about it.

But Georg – would she ever get to a place where she wanted to talk about Georg?

"I'm embarrassed," Maria admitted, for that much was true, at least. "I didn't expect anything to happen. I really should have known better."

All three girls murmured sympathetically, and rushed to reassure her that they had all fallen for men during work at one time or another.

"We've all been through it. We're in the job of getting our hearts broken," Jenny proclaimed, reaching across the table to give Maria's hand a squeeze.

"Not me," Cayenne retorted.

"That's because you don't have a heart," Jenny returned, and Cayenne made a face at her.

Maria couldn't help but giggle. After all, wasn't that was sisters did, supported you and lifted your spirits?

"I'll tell you what." Jenny turned to Maria. "What don't you come bathing suit shopping with me after lunch? You have the next few days off too, right? Tomorrow we're going to the beach."

Maria hesitated. She had been dreading these next few days alone, without work to keep her busy. But she knew next to nothing about swimwear. "I'm not sure I'll be very helpful," she said.

"Whatever Jenny tries on, just smile and nod," Netta put in, and everyone laughed.

They parted ways after lunch. Cayenne went home to nap and Netta wanted to buy some groceries before her shift started. She waited with Maria while Jenny went to find Theo to invite him to their beach outing. They watched her walk toward him, where he was managing a stack of plates. He gave her a warm smile, and her eyes fairly sparkled.

Maria turned to Netta, and they exchanged knowing smiles.

"Maria," Netta said suddenly, linking arms with her. "You are a rock. I can't tell you how many times I've admired you, the way you hold your head high after all you've been through. The way you still find a reason to laugh. I'd be so full of envy if I didn't admire you so much."

Touched, Maria leaned into her friend. "I suppose I've just gotten into the habit of waiting for the sun to come out. It always does."

"You must think we're crazy, running away from home and the people who love us like little children throwing a tantrum." Netta sighed, touching her head to Maria's.

She was silent a moment, thoughts drifting to Georg. He was one of the finest, bravest men she knew, piled high with accolades from his navy career, decorated with more medals than he could wear at once. And yet hadn't he, too, run away from home? From the people who loved him?

Maria gave her hand a squeeze. "I don't think that at all," she reassured.

"The man my mother wanted me to marry was almost twice my age," Netta confided. "They were furious when I refused, because he came with money, and lots of it. I think the real reason I left was to show them I could do better. It seems petty, doesn't it?"

She shook her head. "No. I think you're brave, Netta."

Netta sighed morosely. "At this rate, I'm destined to become an old spinster."

Maria chuckled. "Just you wait – on your adventures one day, you'll meet somebody. Somebody kind, who'll touch your mind, and then suddenly touch your heart." She finished in a playful tune, which surprised and delighted the other girl.

Netta laughed. "It'll happen to you, too. And when it does," she gave Maria a nudge, "I hope you'll jump up and go."

Jenny finally returned to them, bright eyed and smiling. Theo waved over at the trio as they left the little restaurant. The three girls meandered over to the market, where Netta bade them farewell, and then Jenny led Maria to the new store in town.

Maria couldn't truthfully say she enjoyed shopping for swimwear. She herself didn't buy anything, not at all interested in either swimming or sun-tanning, as Jenny raved about. She was a poor judge of bathing suits, she decided, after the other girl had appeared in a parade of different outfits. But Jenny was funny and self-deprecating, and excellent company, and not for one moment did Maria find her thoughts wandering.

"Does this make my shoulders look hunky?" She asked, pirouetting in front of the changing room mirror.

"No – I think the ruffles are lovely," Maria said, from where she was ensconced on a settee. "But it's very…uhm, _pink._"

Jenny seemed to take her comments as gospel, changing if Maria showed the slightest hint of hesitation.

"Is this square?" She demanded, scrutinizing the last swimsuit of the pile.

"Um – square?" Maria asked hesitantly, wondering if the word in Greek meant what it actually meant. Jenny twisted toward her, wearing a modest green suit that reached almost to her knees.

"Yeah, you know, like, square?" The other girl made a square with her hands.

Maria nodded, slowly. "Is square good or bad?"

"Maria – it's bad!" Jenny groaned, then disappeared back into the changing room.

In the end, Jenny selected a bold red polka-dotted number, which she wore the next day to the beach. The girls favoured a wide-open stretch of sand to the east of the island, where the water was warm and generally calm. Maria seemed to gravitate towards beaches that were windy and secluded, which was probably why she'd never run into them during her walks along the shore.

Several other girls from the Siren had shown up, eight in total, plus Theo. Cayenne promptly set up her towel for a snooze in the sun, while Netta, Jenny, and her good friend Mavis chose to go for a swim. Two of the others invited Maria on a hike, but she opted to stay behind on the beach. She sat on the sand in her light cotton dress and watched her friends splash about in the water.

For the first time in weeks, Maria did nothing, and felt relaxed.

A shadow cast in the sand next to her caused her to look up. Theo was standing beside her. "May I?" He asked in heavily accented German.

Maria smiled and nodded, and Theo took a seat beside her. His shirt-sleeves and pant legs were rolled up, his shoes full of sand, an island boy through and through. He was wearing a fedora, which he now offered to Maria as she squinted at him.

She shook her head politely.

Theo was an entertainer, she knew, a happy and pleasant presence everywhere he went, but for awhile they were content to sit in silence, neither feeling pressured to talk.

"I've missed this," he commented at last, reverting back into Greek.

There was a wistfulness in his voice that caused Maria to look curiously over at him.

""It's been a long time since we've sat like this," he shrugged, looking a little embarrassed.

Maria thought she knew what he meant – but she had not expected him to feel it so keenly. When she had been a governess, she had taken Johannes down to the shore almost every day. They frequently stopped at the bakery, and sometimes Theo had joined them for their picnics on the beach. Johannes had loved him, had looked up to him like a brother, and Theo had treated him like one. Maria had been so consumed by her own grief she hadn't stopped to think how Theo had felt over Johannes' departure.

"I miss him," Theo said, as though he could read her mind.

"I do, too."

Theo grinned. "Remember the time he got himself stuck up in a tree?"

Maria smiled back. "Do I ever! That was the only time I regretted teaching him how to climb trees. Thank goodness you were there. I don't think even I could have made it up that high."

"What about that time he drank three large glasses of lemonade and became sick?" Maria shook her head ruefully while Theo howled. That imp had somehow charmed a glass of lemonade from each of them and Theo's father without any of the others knowing, and Theo had had to clean up the mess when Johannes threw up all over the bakery floor.

They continued to exchange stories of the little boy – the memories coming thick and fast now that they allowed themselves to think about it. Maria found herself laughing, so much that the girls in the water turned to glance at them.

"I miss your singing," Theo confessed. "You two used to sing all the time – you could make up a song about anything."

Maria sighed. Was there any use now in missing it?

Theo was silent for a moment, in astute response to the expression on her face. "Did you know," he said at last, "that I can play the pan flute?"

Maria looked at him, feeling the flutter of excitement that only came from music. "Can you? I didn't know – you've never played for us before."

Theo laughed. "I've never brought the thing down to the bakery. There's too much flour in the air I'd never be able to clean it out. But I'll play it for you one day."

"You should play at the Siren! Our lineup could use some classical Greek music."

Theo ducked his head. "Maria, I've never set foot in the Siren. It seems wild in there – I'd feel so small as an islander."

Maria shook her head in protest, running with her stroke of inspiration. The Siren was loud and raucous, but it wasn't such a beast once you got used to it. "Would you? If I asked Stavros?"

Theo considered this. "I might. My old man should be able to spare me for a night."

He gave her his trademark smile, and without reservation, Maria found herself returning it.

True to her word, Maria asked Stavros during her next shift whether Theo could play his pan flute, not as background music, but as a special set to showcase local music. After some deliberation, he agreed. The crowd loved it. The music was folksy and upbeat, and more often than not, a patron would jump up and catch one of the girls around the waist to dance between the tables. Theo became a regular at the Siren.

Maria clapped along to his music, and didn't even mind when she was asked to dance, although sometimes extracting herself from the situation afterward was challenging. Theo even persuaded her into composing a few duets together, for pan flute and guitar.

Yes, she was forging ahead. Whenever she felt that overwhelming ache creeping in, she hit back at it twice as hard.

There was never shortage of work at the Siren. Theo's presence even brought a local population into the tavern, and when he played, the place felt more like a large family gathering than a bar. Maria liked the change. Stavros encouraged it, except the one night when the local crowd became so enthusiastic they started smashing plates, and he'd quickly put an end to that.

Maria was sweeping up broken bits of ceramic, Theo's suddenly gentler music encouraging patrons back into their seats for a cozy mug of ale, when she heard Stavros's distinctive call. "Captain!" She couldn't help but jerk upward, a reflex response to the familiarity of the shout. But he was blocking her view of the door, and Maria returned to her task at hand.

Moments later, Jenny, who had been helping distribute new dinnerware to the guests, appeared at her elbow and gave her an urgent nudge. "Maria, look!"

Netta, sweeping on Maria's other side, let out a gasp. Jenny indicated the entrance. "See whose come back!"

Maria looked up once again, and then did a double take, straightening abruptly. All of a sudden, there was no Jenny, no Netta. No Stavros. No patrons. No tavern.

There was only the tall, dark-haired, impeccably dressed Captain, wearing a trachten jacket that seemed incredibly out of place, looking steadily back at her with fathomless blue eyes.

Maria froze, sure if she blinked and opened her eyes, that image would be gone. But it wasn't.

Captain Von Trapp had come back.

He stood rigidly, as though unsure of his welcome, but a small helpless smile touched his lips as they stared at one another.

"Good evening, Maria." His voice was quiet, but she heard his soft Austrian clearly from halfway across the room.

"Good evening."

Somewhere in the periphery, she saw Jenny and Netta link arms with Stavros, leading him away.

She might have walked, might have stumbled, the few steps that seemed to bring him closer. "You left… without saying goodbye." Her heart was beating so forcefully in her ears, she hardly heard her own words.

He, too, was moving toward her. "It was wrong of me." He was standing in front of her. "Forgive me."

"And you… came back." She blinked uncertainly.

He nodded.

For a moment she found it difficult to breath. "Why did you?" Her voice was a whisper, and she wasn't sure if she was asking about why he'd left, or why he'd come back.

"Maria," he said, the word a sigh. For a moment she wondered if he just wanted to say her name. She saw his hands clench at his sides, like he was keeping himself from reaching for her. The sight made something in her chest constrict.

"I was wondering... will you – "

He stopped abruptly as people started clapping around them. Disoriented, Maria looked around, before realizing everyone was cheering for Theo's performance. She saw him step off the stage, his fedora a beacon through the crowd. He was moving towards her, weaving easily around the tables. "Maria!" Theo's voice was breathless as he caught her by the wrist. "Come for our duet!"

Maria felt him tugging her toward the stage. She stumbled, tripping over something on the way, because all she could do was look back at Georg, who in turn, was staring at their joined hands.

* * *

A/N: I feel like a broken record, apologizing for my un-timely updates!

Also, disclaimer for the swimsuit scene - the conversation was inspired by a scene from "Dirty Dancing 2" where the girl discusses "square dresses" with her maid (I've forgotten their names but somehow the funny scene stuck with me!)

Thank you to all for reading and for leaving reviews. I'm so glad you're enjoying this A/U story - I had particular fun this chapter getting to inject some new characters (if Maria is going to be heartbroken I might as well have some fun... ;) - and this adventure is nowhere close to being done. :) Would love to hear your thoughts! xx


	9. The Harbour

The Harbour

The cabaret had ended for the night. Even Rhea, the lively young woman from mainland Greece hired as the new background musician, was packing up her guitar on stage. Stavros had waved her off long ago, but Maria had lingered. Lingered at the bar to tidy up, lingered in the dressing room, meticulously putting away her costume, lingered on the back doorstep of the Siren.

Georg had not stayed. Maria could not recall whether he'd ordered a drink, or where he went after she was pulled onto the stage. He was gone by the time she'd finished her set.

_But he had come back_.

Maria had been prepared never to see him again. After all, Milos had been a mere stopover for a weary sailor, held up by a broken hand. She'd offered her company far too freely, starved as she was for a piece of home. They had found themselves to be kin, to be friends. They could even have been – what was the term Cayenne used so endearingly for her patrons? – _paramour_. It was a sequence of events Maria never expected, couldn't predict and couldn't prevent, despite Georg's herculean effort to ensure they did not fall the common way of sailor and barmaid.

She could accept his departure. He had sailed out, as any sailor would, coming and going as unpredictably as a summer storm, and she had said her goodbyes during her long endless walks by the sea.

So why had he come back?

Maria couldn't keep telling herself that she would never know, for here he was, the answers she was seeking at her fingertips, frightening and overwhelming.

It was on the back doorstep of the Siren that Jenny and Netta found her, the former still dressed in her dancing clothes.

"The Captain left," Jenny announced, as though Maria hadn't noticed he was gone the moment she stepped offstage. "He said he had a long journey, and was returning to his boat."

"He didn't ask us to… pass on the message or anything," Netta added. "We just thought you might want to know."

Maria stared back at them, worrying her lower lip. "Then I should… let him rest."

Jenny's eyes widened. "Maria, are you mad?" She grabbed Maria's arm and gave it a little shake. At her side, Netta gave her a nudge.

"I don't know much about geography," Jenny continued, ignoring Netta's warning, "but I do know that oceans are huge and there are hundreds of islands in the Mediterranean alone. But the Captain chose to come back. As much as I wish otherwise, I don't think it's from a burning desire to see _me_. Or Netta. And certainly not Stavros."

At her side, Netta gave a long-suffering sigh. She took Maria's other hand. "This is so unexpected, isn't it?"

Maria could only shake her head. "It almost makes it harder," she murmured, half to herself.

Netta gave her hand a little squeeze. "Maria, are you in love with him?"

Stunned, Maria stared at them. Both girls were looking at her expectantly. In the long moment that followed, even the cicadas seemed to fall silent, waiting for an answer.

She knew better than to entertain such an idea, had always known better, and yet… could she say no, for certain?

"I – I don't know."

She looked away, and Netta slipped her arm sympathetically around her waist.

"Then you must find out!"

"Oh Jenny… I'm – I'm frightened." Her voice trembled. "I'm...confused. I – I don't know if I can face him again…"

Jenny looked back with huge eyes. "Maria, look where you are. The _Siren_, of all places, is not a place meant to shut out problems. You have to face them. Face him."

_You should be looking for your life – looking for… love, instead of pandering to scoundrels. _

Maria's breath caught. It was not Jenny's voice she heard. It was _his_ voice, his words, which rang in her ears. What, after all, did she have to lose?

A life she had so painstakingly stitched back together. She exhaled.

Netta's hand tightened against hers. "If you don't try… then you will have lost." If was as if she'd heard her thoughts.

On her other side, Jenny threaded her arm through hers. Maria let herself stand there for a long moment, on the step of the Siren, next to her friends. Finally, she took a deep breath. _What is the matter with me? _

"A Captain out there on his boat, what's so fearsome about that?" She muttered as she set off into the night, and heard Jenny's answering chuckle.

Maria made her way down to the habour. There was only a sliver of moon tonight, but on an island of rock and whitewashed houses, the light was more than enough. Despite what she had told Jenny, she didn't know if she was brave enough to march onto Georg's yacht, to seek him out face to face. The mere thought of what they had done, what they had _almost _done, that day on that very yacht was enough to shake her of anything coherent.

In the end, she didn't have to find him on his boat, after all. He was sitting on one of the wooden benches along the dock, a distinguished figure silhouetted against the darkness, all lean lines and taunt muscles. It was a sharp contrast to when she'd first met him, slouched into a booth at the Siren. He was still, staring out at the water. There was something meditative about it, as though he had settled into that position and intended to remain that way all night.

Maria hesitated, her steps slowing against the wooden planks underneath. He turned when he heard her, and was on his feet in an instant.

"Hello."

His bright eyes gleamed in the night. He sounded almost boyish, eager and a little shy. It warmed her, yet made her tongue-tied as they looked at each other.

He had taken off his jacket, white shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows. She remembered how it'd felt, the material rough against her skin, in sharp contrast to the heat and slick sweat of his skin. He had a bit of a stubble now, just like he did when she'd first met him – Maria supposed he had no reason to stay clean-shaven in the middle of the sea – and she wondered briefly how that would feel against her.

Georg cleared his throat, and the way he looked quickly away made her wonder just what he'd been thinking about _her. _She was wearing a new dress that night, made from a lovely blue chiffon she had splurged on from the new clothing store, instead of buying a swimsuit. It had been folly to wear it down to the Siren, where it'd be nudged from its hook after Maria changed into her dancer's costume, and sat in a pile on the floor all the evening. But now – something in Georg's eyes when he'd looked at her made her glad she did.

Awkwardly, he indicated the bench. "Sit down. Please."

Maria perched on the bench, on the edge opposite him.

"Uh – may I?" It seemed an absurd thing to ask when he had just been sitting in the same spot mere moments ago, and he looked flustered as he sat back down.

For a moment they were silent. It felt familiar, if not exactly comfortable. Maria listened to the ebb and flow of the waves, feeling her breathing slow to match, before realized he was doing the same. She could feel his breath in the air between them, and found they had leaned in without meaning to. A small and swift smile crossed his lips as he caught her gaze, and she blushed and looked down.

Maria took a deep breath. "I was – wondering two things." She stared at her hands, clasped in her lap. She hadn't expected it to feel quite so intimate, and quite so awkward.

"Yes?" The word was a soft rumble.

Maria swallowed. "What was it… that made you sail off in the middle of the night, and what was it that made you come back?"

Georg paused for a moment. "Well, I went to see the children."

"Oh!" Maria inhaled sharply, taken aback. "The children?"

He inclined his head. "Yes."

She let the words settle. She'd hoped it was the case, but deep down, she hadn't been able to believe it. He would have told her, unless… "Are they alright?" Maria half-gasped, concern breaking through dumbfounded astonishment. What if it had been urgent? Something wrong?

"Oh – oh yes, yes, they're fine. Umm, let me see. Liesl is enjoying her experience as a freshman. And the rest of the children are settling well into the new semester. " Georg paused again, a fond smile touching his lips. "Their school in Switzerland – it's not far from Lausanne. Beautiful little town by the lake. I rented out an apartment there and had the children stay for the week."

"How wonderful!" Maria could see it. For the first time since she saw him that night, she returned his smile. He'd missed the children, had gone to visit them. She felt light, almost dizzy, like she might just suddenly float away, released by the heaviness that had weighed her down for so many weeks.

"I'd forgotten…" Georg trailed off, looking away, and she saw his hands clench against his legs. After a few moments his gaze returned to her, and he shrugged helplessly. "I've missed a lot of things. Their mischief, their laughter, their singing… hearing the word 'father' a hundred times a day."

Maria blinked. "Singing?"

"Ah, well – yes." Georg stumbled, and she thought he might be blushing, though it was hard to tell in the dark. "I suppose I'd grown accustomed to it, here with you, and found I rather missed it."

"I didn't know your children could sing."

He smiled. "The talent came from their mother, I can assure you."

Maria laughed softly, knowing full well Georg himself had been a musician, able to play everything from the guitar to the zither. She'd never heard him either play or sing, and gathered that since his wife's death, music seemed to bring more pain than pleasure. She, of all people, understood it. Respected it. But it was lovely and heartwarming to hear he was allowing it to creep back into his life, the same way he was allowing himself to reach out to the children.

"What is it?" He asked, voice low as he studied her expression.

"Oh, Georg – I'm just… glad you were able to spend time with the children, that you're letting them get close to you."

He ducked his head. "Well, someone helped this old sailor see that all is not lost, that he still has a family to anchor him." He shrugged a little. "We went on hikes. On bike rides and carriage rides around town. Stopped for pastries and chocolate shakes at the bakery and dined al fresco on the patio. Does that sound familiar, Maria?"

Maria inhaled. The things he'd done on the island – with her – Georg had taken them with him and used them to connect with the children. The thought made her heart beat a little faster.

But she gave a light shrug right back. "They're your children, Georg."

He nodded a little. "Yes, they are." The sudden gleam in his blue eyes was striking in the night. "But because of you, I am glad that they are."

Maria could no longer pretend indifference. Her breath caught, and they both heard her shaky exhale. Georg's eyes locked on hers. But just as she began to lean forward, he seemed to draw back. Maria straightened unsteadily. How was it so easy to lose herself with him? It was as if the past weeks had never happened.

"I want to tell you why I ended up in Lausanne." Georg's voice was low and rough. He seemed as off balance as she felt.

Maria blinked uncertainly. "Weren't you visiting the children?"

"Yes, but when I do, I usually stay at an inn much closer to the school."

"Oh, I see," she murmured, her thoughts and emotions struggling to catch up.

"When the children were otherwise occupied at school, I had the chance to drop in on an old friend of mine. There is a hospital in town where he now practices as a physician, you see."

Maria still did not see, but she nodded all the same.

"We once worked together in the navy – he was a military surgeon at that time. I would trust him with my life."

"Oh," she said vaguely. She reminded herself that the Georg she knew now was a different man from the decorated Captain Von Trapp, and the illustrious company that surrounded him. "What a fortunate coincidence."

"Maria." She responded immediately. It was a command, delivered as tenderly as if he'd touched her, taken her chin in his fingers so she couldn't help but look at him. "He is now a world-renowned throat surgeon."

"Oh!"

"I wanted to ask his opinion about your case," he said quietly.

"Oh."

Her hands shook. She felt as though she had frozen, but was trembling at the same time. Georg let her go, turning out toward the sea, even though she was still staring blankly at him. His posture was – no, not _tense_, she knew enough of his body, of _him_, to pick up the subtle difference – but vigilant. He remained silent, giving her time to absorb the shock.

She took a shaky breath.

All those weeks she had spent, falling, stumbling, _wondering_. And now he was giving her answers, and she had no idea what to do with it. She never expected to find that he had left, not because of her, but _for _her. She never expected that in answering her first question, he'd also answered her second. She never expected that he would come back, because he had always meant to come back.

"You didn't tell me you thought something could be done," Maria whispered.

"I didn't want to give you false hope if there was no chance."

His voice was gentle, his gaze a caress, as though he wanted to offer comfort. Maria stared at him. "And…?"

"It's hard for him to make that kind of assessment without examining you," he cautioned. "But I told him your story, what you told me about the accident. I – I took the liberty to offer my opinion on the quality and range of your voice as it is." He looked down briefly, and this time, Maria was certain he coloured a little. He cleared his voice. "Karl thinks there is a very good chance he can perform a surgery to improve your condition."

Maria exhaled, realizing only then she had been holding her breath. "Is that really possible?"

This time, Georg did reach over to her, covering the hand between them that gripped the edge of the wooden bench so tightly her fingers had turned white. He hand felt very warm. "I don't know Maria. But if you're willing, we can find out."

Her head snapped up toward him, while the rest of her went rigid.

_We can find out. _

The enormity of that offer wasn't lost on her. The chance to leave the island, the chance to recover her voice, the chance to start a new life. He might as well be handing her the moon. And yet…

There was a hint of a different offer in his voice, in his gaze, in his light touch. His eyes darkened as they looked at each other. She couldn't tell who was being pulled to whom, the space between them almost palpable, drawing them together yet again like some irrefutable law of physics. His thumb now tracing little circles against the back of her hand was almost certainly involuntary. She could only sigh in response.

It was an offer beyond his control. An offer he wasn't going to make. Couldn't make. A vagabond captain, an ex-baron, a father just barely rediscovering his children. He wasn't going to propose she make her home in the small cabin of his yacht, wasn't going to take her sailing around the world, wasn't going to introduce her to the world's seedy port bars every time he docked. He wasn't going to take her to Switzerland to present to his children. Even then, what could he even present her as? The lady of his vessel? His mistress? His acquisition from the island of Milos the way France had acquired Venus of Milos?

Maria pulled away, resisting the sudden urge to flee into the night. And she knew then, why he had left without a word. Because that day she too, had made an offer – would never be able to take back that offer, would never want to – one Georg would never accept, because he was too much of a gentleman.

She swallowed. "Georg, when you left…. I didn't know if – " Against her will, she heard her breathing hitch. Why was she chasing the confirmation she now knew without a doubt?

"I know, Maria," his said hoarsely. He didn't try to reach for her again. "I'm sorry. I was a coward. I had… lost control. The things you were doing to me Maria, you have no idea…"

"I have some idea," she muttered.

"And the things I wanted to do to _you! _Your innocence, your previous life as a postulate be damned.I was afraid, in a way I haven't been in years. I didn't want to hurt you." His eyes were very bright. "I am not going to hurt you."

She felt her eyes fill. "You wouldn't hurt me," she said. But as she said it, she saw herself crying on her knees on these very docks before her. She recalled mindlessly trudging through never-ending days, the exhausting way she barely held herself together. Maria had felt his departure as keenly as she had felt every other loss in her life. Would she put herself through that again? Would she put herself through much more, by giving him all of her?

Even a Baroness had not been able to hold him.

"Forgive me," he said again, his voice cracking. He hesitated. "These weeks were… difficult, for me too. But now, seeing you back there at the Siren – it was the right thing to do."

"What do you mean?" She asked. But she knew. Georg would say that she was better off, because he had let her be.

"It's changed, Maria. It's not the same tavern I remember. It's changed for the better. The place is warmer, friendlier, livelier, in a better way. And it has something to do with you and that young man you were with."

"Theo," she said automatically.

"Yes. The baker's son, who is no longer just the baker's son. And the other girls you were talking to. You are close with them."

So he had spotted her, looked for her, from the moment he'd walked into the Siren. He'd seen her talking to Jenny and Netta.

"And seeing you on the stage, playing a duet! You composed that first piece, didn't you? The one that sounded like an Austrian folk song set in the Aegean. I didn't know a pan flute could _yodel_."

Maria couldn't help a watery smile. So Georg had stayed, after all. Had watched her, had taken in everything about her. "That was inspired by a song I used to love," she confessed.

"The Lonely Goatherd, I know the one." His lips twitched, and it suddenly occurred to her no one outside Austria would have any idea what they were talking about. "You looked confident. Happy. And this dress…" his eyes moved from the wide neckline, the ruffled sleeves, down to the cinched belt and flowing skirt, "this is new."

Maria flushed under his gaze. She opened her mouth to protest, but closed it again. These past week had been hard – but there _had _been moments where she had felt happiness, where she'd made herself have fun. Perhaps she too, had never believed she could chase that feeling. Perhaps it was this Captain sitting beside her who'd made her see it.

"Maybe," she found herself saying, "maybe there is more than one way to be happy."

"If I wasn't sure of it, I wouldn't be asking you to give this up for Switzerland," Georg replied lightly. The fact that he didn't quite meet her eyes was the only acknowledgement he gave that he understood what she really meant.

"And you?" She said, not completely sure why she felt the need to challenge him. "Are you happy?"

His eyes lingered this time. "It's a work in progress," he said finally. He kept his voice light, and yet even the practiced, impassive Captain Von Trapp couldn't completely hide the regret lurking deep within his eyes.

It made her say suddenly, "we are friends."

He raised his eyebrows.

"Theo and I. We are friends."

Georg paused for a long moment. "I'm glad," he admitted finally. The softness in his voice told her all she needed to know. He hadn't expected her to wait, but against his better judgment, he had hoped.

It was the same way she had watched for him, saw him everywhere even though she knew he had gone. She had tried to move on – _wanted _to move on, as he so clearly needed her to.

Georg wanted to help her, wanted to given her the chance to find her voice, the chance to find the life she was meant to live. He'd always believed she could be more than she was.

_We can find out._

He would offer her his connections, his yacht, his expertise, his company – everything Georg Von Trapp had to offer.

For someone she until tonight never expected to see again, it was more than generous. And – if she were being honest – it was a really good offer for someone like her.

And yet…

_Are you in love with him? _

She looked at him, oddly calm, and he returned her gaze. "Come with me, Maria," he said steadily, as though he somehow knew what she'd been thinking. Throughout the evening, he had been unable to hide that he'd wanted her, wanted _more_, a desire even weeks at sea couldn't entirely erase. And yet, he must have returned to the island believing he could control it. He was determined to control it, in order to give her this chance.

Perhaps, then, it was not so much a question, but a choice.

"To Switzerland," Maria reiterated, just to confirm.

"To Switzerland."

She considered the idea – truly allowed herself to imagine it… and found she couldn't. Maria had never let herself think about leaving the island, although she knew the girls talked about it from time to time. Just the other day, Jenny had fantasized about the very thing that was being offered to her – being whisked away aboard a beautiful yacht by a handsome sailor.

Only for Maria it would be but the first stop.

"And then?"

Georg just smiled, the light touching his eyes speaking eloquently enough. The look of a young adventurer with the world at his fingertips.

Maria bit her lip. He'd gone everywhere, and at the same time, belonged nowhere, to no one. "And if I want to come back?"

He looked momentarily taken aback. "Would you?"

In answer, she gave a small sheepish shrug. The island was her home – had been her home for almost three years. Wasn't it right that she might miss it?

"If that is what you wish," Georg said.

Slowly, she shook her head. "I don't think so."

"Then I will take you wherever you want to go."

Where _would _she go? What would she do? Maria blinked, surprised to find the answer to the latter was not difficult. She could work as a governess, could work in a restaurant, in a bar. In a cabaret. She could go home. Go anywhere. And if she could really sing again…

The thought made her inhale. She looked at Georg, who gave her a small, almost impish smile.

She hesitated. "There is a chance that nothing can be done."

Georg remained silent, lifting his eyebrows, underscoring the reverse.

Still, Maria held back, her sense of expectation turning into an agitation that brought her to her feet. She wandered away from the bench, closer to the water. "I've never let myself think that far…"

She could hear Georg rise behind her. "If there is a chance, Karl will find it. The hospital has state of the art equipment, and Karl's skill is next to none."

Thinking about that made Maria turn back. "Georg, I cannot afford this. This – this consultation… this procedure, or surgery, whatever may come of it. I will need financing first."

"Let me take care of it." He said it simply, as though the matter was already settled.

Maria stared at him. "I cannot ask you to do that."

"Maria." He took a few deliberate steps toward her. "Money is not a concern. I have more than I know what to do with and nobody to spend it on."

"The children…"

"The children are well provided for and have trusts tied up in investments. Maria, women – and men, for that matter – who've known me much less have asked for more." His voice dropped, low and gravelly. "Let me do this. Let me give something, to someone I care very much about."

It could have been a plea, a prayer. A confession he hadn't intended to make. His voice tore right to her core, and Maria felt it as a vice-like ache in her chest as she gazed at the man in front of her. The trip then, was as much about her as it was about him. As much to find her, as it was to redeem him.

She took a breath. "How long will it take?"

He blinked, inhaling slowly, as though trying to find a way back to practicalities. "Less than a week sailing to get to Italy. We'll go around the Greece Peloponnese and up the Adriatic coast to Ancona. From there it is but a day's ride to Lausanne by train." As he spoke, he wandered over to stand next to her.

Maria nodded slowly. "When would we leave?"

"As early as we can. Tomorrow, if possible."

"Tomorrow?" Maria stared. How could she simply leave the last three years behind in a day?

"The weather is cooling – I don't want it to turn while we're on the water."

A part of her felt a rising sense of hysterics, a mad desire to laugh at the absurdity of it all. And yet another part of her felt his words tug at her heart.

Georg was a seafarer through and through. Perhaps he'd once been an aristocrat, a husband, a family man – when he'd had a home to return to. But now he belonged to the sea. Maria saw it now. Saw why he resisted putting down roots. Saw the way he came and went. Saw the way he could leave on a moment's notice, without warning, in the middle of the night.

"Could we – could we stay one more day?"

Georg paused, looking her over. "We can stay as long as you need," he said at last.

Their eyes locked. There was such a strange softness to them, tender and understanding, that Maria had to turn away. She looked outward toward the sea, a deep indigo that melted into blackness.

If Georg had not been a sailor, that understanding could have spelled a promise, a very different kind of journey. But if he had not been a sailor, they would never have met, and he would not be carrying around the past with him that he did.

Maria swallowed. "I'm prone to being sea sick," she told the night.

"I've been told I'm excellent at the helm," he reassured lightly.

She snuck a sidelong glance at him. He didn't appear offended. "It's not that I don't trust – "

"Maria. Don't think I don't know what it takes to even consider boarding a vessel, after what you've been through, never mind everything else we've discussed." His voice was filled with inexplicable warmth. "But if you can do this… I will be here."

He offered his hand, and without looking, she reached for it in the space between them. It was a handshake, a salute, and a Georg Von Trapp kind of promise.

Maria smiled, and she saw him smile in response out of the corner of her eye.

Hadn't she, before any of this started, always longed for adventure?

Out of all the adventures she imagined Captain Von Trapp might offer, the chance to start over hadn't been one of them. But still, there was no reason why she shouldn't jump up and go.

* * *

A/N: M and G always seem to reach this point where it seems the only thing keeping them apart is their respective self-denial. In the movie when Maria flees to the Abbey, she is a postulate and he is engaged... but I'd like to think she would have even if that weren't the case, because it's really more a tangle of circumstances and how M and G see themselves/their pasts/their future, and I'm really trying to explore that angle. Would love to know what you think!

I'm really excited to start this next stage of their journey. Thank you for reading and for your thoughtful comments! xx


	10. The Open Sea

A/N: This chapter is a bit of a mess still... but it's the best I can do right now. These pandemic weeks have been crazy - between being a healthcare worker and managing two stir-crazy kids at home, life is upside down and all over the place. But we're managing, and we're going to get through it. Take care and stay safe, everyone. xx

* * *

The Open Sea

Georg eased his boat carefully out of its berth. The late fall morning was warm, cloudless, and perfect for sailing. From the helm, he could see Maria, standing starboard at the railing, and the small crowd that had gathered to see her off.

Georg saw her blow a kiss to Alex, who was wearing his trademark worn overalls and straw hat. She waved to Stavros, to the girls, to Theo and his father, who early that morning had filled his galley cupboards with fresh bread and Maria's favourite Greek pastries.

Maria was smiling, waving enthusiastically – the same cheerful spirit that'd greeted him in the morning when he arrived at her apartment to help with her things. She wasn't bringing much; one suitcase, one carpetbag, and her guitar. It had taken him only one trip to bring everything down to the docks. While Georg went ahead with her luggage to the yacht to prepare for departure, Maria had gone to the cemetery to say farewell. Georg wondered how that had gone, saying goodbye to Pierre. Perhaps he had never been a lover, but certainly he'd been a friend, her sole connection to Austria over these past few years. He'd been the man who'd once brought her to the island to start a new life. Now she was leaving, and he would remain for eternity, atop the hill under the sun and sky. If it'd wrung her heart, Maria gave no signs of it as she joined him on the dock.

Georg knew she'd made individual visits to see her friends yesterday, and had given notice to Stavros first thing in the morning, but he eventually realized the real reason Maria wanted to stay an extra day was to work her last shift at the Siren. As much as Georg knew she'd hated it – had hated her working there himself – he understood what it'd meant to her. Working at the Siren was what had lifted her out of her despair. It'd given her a sense of purpose when she'd lost everything. Georg met her there that night, the space so crowded he'd only managed to snag a stool at the counter.

Georg sat and watched her dance, watched her pour drinks, watched her take to the stage with Theo. Maria may have assured him they were friends, but Georg saw the admiration in the way the young man looked at her, the casual way he touched her, more frequently than necessary.

And then with a flourish and a bow, Theo and his pan flute stepped aside, leaving Maria alone on stage. Her blond head was bent over her guitar, as if she were shy, but as she coaxed the first few familiar chords, her eyes lifted to find his. Edelweiss. He was swept back to their first night. She had charmed him then, bewitched him, even, but he could never have known their time together would unfold like this, leaving him with a profound sense of tenderness, of wistful yearning, of regret. Georg could only stare in awe as she began to sing, and a hush came over the listening crowd. He could see her eyes flicker to Stavros, to her friends, but repeatedly, helplessly, they returned to him. In their blue depth, he saw their time together – a greeting, a farewell, a thank you. He was dimly aware she was still performing, still on stage, but the song felt intimate, leaving him aching to respond. All he could do was lean back against his chair and try not to let his uneven breathing give him away.

As her song came to an end, the crowd burst into applause, burly sailors, kitchen staff, dancing girls alike. Next to them, Stavros was shaking his head slightly, wearing a scowl that barely hid the heartfelt expression beneath. Maria stepped off the stage into a huddle of her girls, who surrounded her in excited voices and starry eyes. Georg heard her laugh, but it was him she sought, head titled like a question mark. He nodded slightly, trying to summon pride, or admiration, when in reality she had touched a depth he could not express. When the girls let her go, she walked toward him. Involuntarily, he found himself standing. It seemed the crowd collectively held its breath as Maria stopped in front of him. The moment was both theirs, and not theirs. He embraced her lightly. Felt her exhale against his shoulder. And then the silence gave way to raucous noise.

Maria spent the rest of the evening working with her friends, and the bar returned to its usual lively atmosphere. She turned heads the entire night. Georg could catch snippets of conversation, the appreciative ways patrons talked about her had him clenching his fists and glad he was taking her away the next day. He felt a bitterness in his chest as he swallowed. It was but a small demonstration she allowed herself tonight, a glimpse into the woman she really was. Once they saw – once the world saw – the woman she was… men would fall at her feet.

But Georg had been prepared to accept this. This was her life, only beginning, and he should count himself lucky she trusted him to play a supporting role.

Yet knowing this… it made their journey ahead both too long, and never long enough.

Georg sighed, slowly steering the boat away from the island, navigating between numerous fishing boats toward the open sea. The arms of the harbor slipped further away. Maria made her way around the deck to the stern, so she could still see her friends. Georg heard shouts of 'goodbye Maria!' and when he turned, he could see one of the girls waving what looked like a large headscarf with a printed Greek flag. He knew how final this farewell was for her, how difficult it was to leave what she knew for a journey that might yield nothing. He couldn't help but marvel at how spirited she remained all morning, how she managed to turn this moment into a festivity, and what was incredible about it was that it was not a false act. Maria, he thought, the realization a tender tug in his mind, was courage and sheer will. She waved back until she could no longer make out the crowd. She lingered against the railing for a long while, watching Milos shrink behind them until it melted into the horizon, and then she continued to stare out into the sea. She seemed more contemplative than sad, so Georg returned his attention to his driving and left her to her own thoughts.

Even after he reached the open water, he stayed at the helm for a while longer to chart his course. He would stick relatively close to the coastline, around Greece then along the Balkan Penninsula, rather than put Maria at risk sailing across the sea, where the waves were larger and wilder and the weather more unpredictable. It would add at least another day and night's sailing to their journey. Sailors often settled into an easy routine when they were confined together at sea for long stretches of time – would they? What sort of routine would they adopt, he and Maria?

Georg had spent the better part of the last month at sea trying not to consider it, and now he was about to find out.

Maria. The first woman after Agathe to sail aboard his vessel.

Georg had not let himself dwell on it, the much bigger question being whether Maria would agree to leave Milos and go with him to see Karl Bonnetsmuller in the first place. Would she believe him, trust him, when he had nothing to offer but a vision of who Maria _could _be, were she given the chance?

But she had. And she was here, sailing with him on his yacht.

He didn't need the significance of that to admit he cared about Maria, in a way he'd never cared about Elsa, never mind the countless women he'd met since. Georg had told her as much. Told her outright he'd wanted her, cared about her. What she didn't know was that he'd spent nearly every night this month pacing the length of his boat, unable to outrun the way she appeared in his dreams. What she didn't know was how much of a fixture she already seemed on the yacht, without even being on it. What she didn't know – would never know – was how frequently he thought of her the same way he'd once thought of Agathe.

It was two decades later, and circumstances had changed.

He had changed.

He could not offer Maria the same things he had once offered his bride. Georg had had weeks to consider this. Weeks to come to terms with it.

"Do you have to man the wheel the entire trip?" The object of his thoughts asked brightly from the doorway. He turned. Maria ducked so she could get through the narrow door frame into the helm, coming up behind him to perch against the small counter that normally held his maps. She appeared comfortable, moving around the boat with a strangely appealing mix of familiarity and curiosity. Georg had to remind himself that she had probably sailed _to _Milos in something very similar, albeit not with a sailor.

"No," he said, unable to keep a smile from creeping into his voice. "She can self-steer once we get on course."

He watched as Maria examined the panel of navigational instruments in front of him. With her dirndl and headscarf holding her hair in place against the wind, and her bright and curious ways, she seemed much more like the Maria that'd once roamed dusty Milos hills at his side than the woman who'd met him on the docks the other night. She'd seemed fragile then, at once transparently, achingly hopeful, yet cautious and uncertain. Georg knew her, knew that once her mind was made up she'd move forward with fierce determination. He should be glad of it.

Maria stayed a long while at the helm, and he explained how to steer a boat, how to pick safe routes, how to channel the power of wind and currents. She listened eagerly, poking fun at him whenever he turned too technical. He let her take command of the wheel, showing her where to position her hands as not to get back or shoulder strain. In a sense, she was not like Agathe at all, who had loved sailing, but was more likely to be found bird-watching or reading a book on the deck. They moved together with unexpected ease, an intuitive understanding that drove his love for sailing in the first place. If she reacted to his solid presence behind hers, if he reacted to the feel of her hand under his, neither mentioned it.

In the afternoon, Georg let the self-steering mechanism take over, and went to find Maria below deck. She welcomed him with a voice that had grown slightly hoarse from the incessant wind. She had found a pack of bratwurst, now sizzling merrily in a pan on the small stove. She nodded pointedly at a loaf of bread as he entered. Georg made to join her at the counter, both amused and bemused at being commanded on his own boat. It was a small, cozy space, and they worked silently, exchanging small smiles every so often when their eyes met.

Too quickly, they had settled into a routine. Too soon, he would need to forget it.

Maria and Georg shared a pleasant meal in the galley. It was a small space, a corner bench carved along the wall of the yacht. He rarely ate there, but now found himself lingering at the table. He told her more about the children – how little Gretl practically fancied herself a young lady, how they'd roamed the streets of Lausanne until the spotted the perfect parasol Marta wanted, how young Kurt had taken a notion to traveling the world after he graduated.

"He wants to take up sailing?" Maria asked, surprised, thinking it quite an about turn for Georg's younger son.

"In a manner of speaking," Georg chuckled. "He wants to see the world aboard a luxury cruise liner."

Maria laughed, then peppered him with questions about Louisa and Fredrich, both of whom were already considering college. She helped him work through his conundrum about Liesl entertaining young gentleman callers at her boarding home.

From the galley, they watched the sun set, changing from a fiery yellow to a mellow orange, its glow softer and gentler as it leveled with the water. It took only minutes for the sun to disappear, leaving behind pastel clouds in a deepening sky, a sudden chill in place of the sun's warm embrace. Maria watched the spectacle in silence, her chin propped in her hands, eyes sparkling.

"I didn't think there was any sunset quite like sunset on the Greek isles, but this…" Maria sighed.

Georg knew what she meant. Even after years of sailing, he still felt it, the little thrill when the sun went down. "When you're seeing it on the water, you feel closer to it. Instead of watching it, marveling at it, you feel like you're part of it."

She nodded. "The waves, the wind, everything. It all feels so different on the water."

Georg smiled. "By the end of the week, we'll make a sailor of you yet."

It had been lighthearted when he said it. He tried his best to keep it that way.

Maria looked thoughtful, looking out at the water and missing the change in expression that briefly crossed his face. Finally, she shook her head. "No," she said, turning to him with earnest eyes. "I can see how you love it so, Georg. But eventually, I think I'll still need the feeling of grass under my feet. I need trees. Ground I can stand on. Being able to run without falling overboard. Mountains I can climb and fields I can dance across. Church bells and organs that play on Sundays."

People to laugh with, people to love, Georg added silently as Maria stopped, out of breath. Maria needed the world, and the world needed her. If she were trapped on a tiny boat for the rest of her life, she may as well have become a nun.

"Being on a boat could save you from many a scrape," he teased instead, brining her out of her starry eyed vision.

"I suppose it _would _save me from a great deal of kissing the floor," she agreed with a small, rueful laugh.

She'd mentioned it before, and now curiosity got the better of him. "Kissing the floor?"

Another laugh. "Sister Berthe," she said, shrugging, as though that explained everything.

"Sister Berthe?" Georg looked bemused. "Who is Sister Berthe?"

"The Mistress of Novices," Maria clarified. "She used to make me kiss the floor whenever I committed a transgression at the Abbey. Eventually, I just started kissing the floor whenever I saw her coming, just to save time."

Georg laughed with her.

"I think she was so hard on me because she too, never believed I was truly fit for the Abbey." Maria sighed. "But I miss her perhaps most of all, next to the Reverend Mother. Before I left, she was the one who taught me how to defend myself against danger."

He was briefly surprised. How did a cloistered nun come to know of self-defense, or the need to use it? But even nuns, he was coming to learn, had their own stories. Wasn't Maria herself proof of that?

"Do you miss it?" Georg asked curiously. "The Abbey?" He'd never heard Maria talk about her time as a postulate – the window after she had revealed she'd been one hadn't left much time for storytelling.

"Yes, of course," she said without hesitation. "I miss the Sisters tremendously." Maria launched into a string of reminisces about her time as a postulate, about the Reverend Mother, Sister Berthe, Sister Margaretta, Sister Sophia, and a number of other Sisters Georg couldn't keep straight. While he might not be able to remember the various nuns Maria had befriended, what was clear was how warmly she remembered her time at the Abbey. It had been home. Perhaps the only family Maria had known.

Maria fell briefly silent, worrying her lip along her teeth. "It feels like I've lived a lifetime since then. What wouldn't I give sometimes for the orderliness of it, to know what was expected of me… for someone to tell me what to do!" She gave a rueful chuckle. "Sister Berthe would faint to hear me say that."

Georg could have said that she had done just fine, that of all people, she would find her own way. Would climb every mountain and ford every stream – or sea – until she did. But having just left her little island behind for good, it clearly wasn't something she wanted to hear right now.

"And let me tell you, from the mouth of a retired sea captain," he said lightly instead, "following commands isn't all its cracked up to be." For even if you did everything right, you could still lose everything.

Maria sighed in resignation. "You couldn't discipline me if you tried."

The sudden, unbidden, and entirely inappropriate scenario of him as a sea captain teaching her _exactly _what ship discipline meant flashed before his eyes. He covered his sharp intake with a cough.

Maria looked him over with concern. "Are you alright, Georg?"

He nodded, pushing back his chair and standing in one fluid motion, taking several hurried steps back.

Her eyebrows furrowed, and she opened her mouth, no doubt to point out that he most certainly did not seem alright. "I – I suppose I need to go up and check the navigation," he rushed on, at that moment feeling no distance between them on this boat would suffice. Clearing his throat, Georg took a breath. "Will you be okay?" He titled his chin toward the door that led to his cabin. He'd taken her there earlier, showed her where he'd left her bags. The cabin would be her room for the trip, and he would do well not to think too much about it. "Is there anything else you need?"

"Oh Georg, I really don't want to impose," Maria protested again, as she had that afternoon. She followed with a thought they had not discussed earlier. "Where will you sleep?"

He waved his hands in a vaguely encompassing gesture. "I don't sleep much on the water – a few hours here and there."

"But I'll be in your bed."

He chuckled weakly. Was she goading him on purpose? "This bench folds out into a cot. I've slept on much worse," he tried to reassure.

In reality, he had never slept on the bench. Never had reason to – he'd always had his cabin, his bed, whether alone or not. Sometimes he'd spend warm nights on his deck. There was once or twice he'd been so intoxicated he'd passed out on the floor, but never the bench.

Now completely unable to banish the thought – no, the _sensation_ – of _this _woman in his bed, Georg would sleep on that bench if it killed him.

Unable to fully meet her gaze, he watched her stand in his periphery.

"Alright then," she said, a little uncertainly still. "Goodnight Georg."

He managed to return her small smile. "Goodnight Maria."

Georg made sure he was well on his way up the stairs before she disappeared into the cabin, lest it undo him altogether.

How quickly things had derailed, Georg allowed himself to muse as he sat alone at the helm. They had been talking of nuns, and order, and, oh for Heaven's sake, _discipline. _Perhaps he ought to start keeping a list of dangerous topics – although, he reasoned drily, what were the chances the issue of Maria's _discipline _would need to be reviewed again?

The yacht was navigating just fine, as he had known it would be, but Georg continued to sit there for an hour, maybe more, as if hoping the night wind might cool off his thoughts. She appeared in his dreams often enough without him stoking the fire. If there was any inkling he'd be dreaming of her, Georg would spend the night up here, anyway.

When he finally returned to the galley, it was silent and still. Quietly, he set up the cot, stretching out lengthwise, not quite sleeping, but enjoying the soft sway of the boat as it moved over the waves, so different from the lurching motion when it was docked.

Before he was fully settled, he heard the cabin door open. He peered into the darkness to see Maria's faint silhouette slip out of the room, her voluminous nightgown billowing from the night breeze even in the sheltered galley. He felt her hesitate on the threshold as she spotted him sleeping on the bench, before padding carefully to the sink for a glass of water.

He caught the silvery glow of moonlight against her hair, the soft profile of her features in the dark. He turned slightly away, and closed his eyes.

The sound of the tap. Of running water. Of stillness. He imagined her bringing the glass to her lips.

"Georg," she half-whispered suddenly, startling him. "You don't have a pillow."

"Hmm?" He hadn't realized she had turned toward him. "I'm fine Maria, don't worry about me."

But Maria left her glass on the counter and disappeared into the cabin, reappearing moments later with the pine cushion from her Milos apartment he had become so familiar with.

"Here," she held it out for him. Georg started to sit up, but Maria slipped the pillow deftly under his head. In the moment he felt his chest clench at the small gesture, when her hand lingered beside him and their eyes met, bright spots in the night, he wanted nothing more than to pull her down onto the cot beside him.

He let the moment pass.

Georg lay there for a long while after Maria returned to her room, smelling the fresh scent of pine.

He would not, _refused_ to dream of her.

He drifted off. Before he had fully fallen asleep, he heard a cry from the room.

_Maria. _

Heart pounding, he bolted upright, and heard Maria cry out again. Then a sound that could pass for a shriek. Despite knowing there was nothing that could hurt her in that room, Georg felt his mouth go dry.

He sprang off the bench, hastily knocking on the cabin door before rushing in.

She was still asleep, limbs tangled in sheets and ginormous nightgown. She was clearly agitated even in sleep, hands clutching fistfuls of sheets, forehead damp with sweat.

"Maria!" He urged. He switched on the dim light. She continued to tremble, trapped in a nightmare, and he had a very good idea what it was about.

"Maria." He leaned over the bed, giving her shoulder a little shake. She moaned as if she were being restrained, curling away from his touch, arms flailing out inches from his face.

Georg sat at the edge of the bed, careful not to touch her again, murmuring her name over and over, watching as she lifted out of the dream bit by bit. Finally, her eyes fluttered open. They found his, pupils blown wide in the dimly lit cabin, and she struggled to sit up.

"It was a dream," he said gently.

Maria continued to stare at him with huge, fearful eyes. "A storm came," she said blankly.

"There's no storm. It was a nightmare."

She blinked, and Georg gave her time to take in her surroundings – the dark paneled wood of his cabin, the generously sized bed, the white sheets. Her breathing evened. Maria had never mentioned having nightmares before, and in the nights he'd spent at her apartment, he'd never witnessed it. Being on the water again must have brought back visceral memories of the accident. He should have foreseen it - should have known the impossibility of forgetting the intensity of trauma like that. It'd always been there, she'd only buried it.

Maria shook her head. "It was _terrible_," she whispered emphatically. "I was in the water again."

He nodded. "I know. To feel like you're drowning is a terrifying dream. Don't worry – I won't let that happen." He reached out to give her arm a reassuring touch.

She shook her head, half in fear, half in shock. "It was you, Georg." He paused, going still. She went on. "You were with me. You jumped in after me." Her eyes filled. "You screamed at me to hold on, and then – " she half choked out, "– I couldn't see you anymore."

He exhaled. "Oh Maria. No."

And then he was reaching for her, and she was falling against him, tears and tangled sheets and bare skin, and Georg found himself spending the night in that cabin, after all.


	11. The Deck, Under the Stars

A/N: Thank you for the lovely reviews and words of support! Writing and escaping into this story - which is a little more manageable these days as work and life has settled a little more into a routine, albeit a crazy one - has helped me tremendously in coping over the last few weeks. I hope you too, are all staying well (and sane). xx

This scene has been in my mind since, quite literally, the beginning. A little bit of longing, a little bit of fluff. Hope you enjoy, and would love to hear your thoughts.

* * *

The Deck, Under the Stars

The days at sea passed uneventfully enough. Despite Georg's concern that the fall weather might suddenly turn, it was a brilliant and unforgiving sun that accompanied them from morning till night, reflecting everywhere in every direction on the water. The sun was more ruthless out at sea than on the island, Maria quickly learned, her uncovered neck and shoulders red and flaming after half a morning sitting on the deck, deceived too was she by the cool, brisk sea breeze.

There was no schedule, but she and Georg eased into a comfortable pace. They came together and drifted apart throughout the day, Georg to the helm and Maria into one of the books she'd borrowed from his small onboard collection. Georg woke early and never ate breakfast, but he'd join her on the deck with a strong cup of coffee. They both liked to shower in the morning, and after the third day Maria learned to keep busy during his turn when she caught him exiting the small bathroom with a fluffy towel wrapped firmly around his torso. On some days she'd make lunch and bring it to him at the helm. Sometimes she'd stay. Maria found she had a certain fascination with the equipment and learning about the yacht. She wasn't sure if part if it stemmed from Georg's evident passion for sailing, or perhaps from some remote awareness that if she could master it, she could control it - control what happens to her on the water. Georg was patient in his explanations, but Maria sensed his default at the helm was silence. That was fine by her. She liked watching him sail, as natural to him as breathing.

When she was alone, Maria spent most of her time hunting for shade on the deck, with her book or with her thoughts. While the galley was covered and cool, Maria found she was much more comfortable above deck. When she could see her surroundings and see where they were headed, she didn't feel as uneasy on the water.

Maria didn't think she was afraid of sailing, and she knew she wasn't afraid of water. She trusted Georg, and was confident he wouldn't let anything happen to her. She liked the yacht, and even more, liked the pared down routine of being at sea. It was as though time had slowed, as though she were suspended in this moment, unburdened by a past or troubled by a future. It was a refuge, and she understood why Georg had turned to it.

But the nights. Oh, the nights!

They seemed unbearable, at first. Maria had no idea, had never imagined, that being on the water would cause her to relive that accident in vivid and terrifying dreams. She did occasionally have nightmares about drowning, disorienting snippets that had her waking gasping for breath, but not even in the early days had she dreamed about the accident. She had been unconscious for so long after it, and then, the grief of everything catching up to her had pushed aside fear of the accident itself.

That first night, after Georg had shaken her out of her nightmare, he'd held her against the bed long into the night. Terrified, Maria had clung to him, the vestiges of the dream too real to shake. She had lost so many people, she thought blindly, she couldn't lose Georg, too.

Even when she had calmed at last, the relentless pounding of the waves made her unable to even entertain the idea of sleep.

She must have dozed, here and there, for she woke to a pale dawn, alone on the bed, sheets tucked firmly around her. She felt sluggish, unsettled, but the pinkish light filtering through the porthole was soft and gentle, and Maria found she was no longer gripped by the deep, visceral fear that had haunted her through the night.

Nothing was going to happen to her, to Georg. Of course not.

During the day, in the light, it was easy to believe.

Georg was waiting for her in the galley. He was drinking a coffee, scrawling into a notepad, but the way he looked her over made her feel sure he had been waiting – worried yet not wanting to disturb her. Maria gave him a small, tired smile, and he made no reference to their night as he served her breakfast. After all, what was there to say? It had been more feeling than thought, more instinct than foresight. She'd had a nightmare, and he'd come to offer comfort.

Maria managed to put the night behind her during the day. Georg introduced her to his collection of books – books he'd read hundreds of times, judging by their tattered spines and worn pages. He had diverse taste, from American literature to British poetry to German philosophy, and Maria felt a strange thrill as she thumbed through the volumes as though he had granted her access to something precious and forbidden. She let herself get lost in the books, the lapping of the waves against the hull more soothing than distressing during daytime. But after the sun set and night rolled around, a vague sense of dread overtook her again. Maria found herself sitting on the deck, unwilling to subject herself to sleep and the nightmares that might come with it. The complete darkness beyond the yacht was disconcerting, and her eyes strained to make sense of it, but it was better than the alternative.

Georg, coming down from the helm, found her there. With the intuition that came of sharing the same space, she sensed him before she heard him, sensed him watching her for long moments before coming to sit down beside her. Maria leaned back against her wrists to look at him, his trademark white shirt a beacon in the night. Georg had vanished into the control room after a hurried supper, his sailor's sixth sense telling him they had gone off course, and had remained there for several hours.

"I didn't want to sleep," she told him sheepishly, although he had put no pressure on her to talk.

"I didn't think you would." His voice was warm like a blanket around her shoulders.

Maria sighed. He'd been unusually gentle with her all day, and she felt herself respond. "I feel… betrayed," she admitted. "I thought I had moved past it."

Georg made a sound of acknowledgement, then said softly, "Maria, just because it's in the past doesn't mean it never happened."

"I know," she said quickly. Because she _did _know – of course she did. "I just wish I hadn't… that I had known – "

What? What did she wish she had known? That the accident still had the ability to terrorize her? That she was not as strong as she'd imagined? That somehow… losing Georg would be the most unbearable of all?

Maria bit her lip.

"In war they call it post traumatic stress," Georg murmured. "It manifests differently for everyone – dreams, flashbacks, hallucinations… it was normal, expected."

And had he comforted them the way he had comforted her?

"You get to know your men's triggers," Georg continued. "We don't expect them to get over it, but if your team can't spot and mitigate it, it may just kill you in battle. Someone freezes, someone loses control, someone falls out of rank… and everyone dies. It is not a weakness. In fact, every unit is stronger because of it."

"And you? Do you have triggers?"

He looked at her. "Not from war."

And Maria knew the rest. Georg's demons were not external, and she already knew how he dealt with them. Drink and women.

But come to think of it, she hadn't seen Georg drink since his return to the island, hadn't seen him drink at all during their time onboard. "You don't keep any alcohol on the yacht," she realized suddenly.

"No, I don't," he confirmed.

She hesitated briefly. "Why don't you?"

"Well… mostly to resist temptation," he said, a careful edge in his voice. Maria felt a surge of sympathy. "But that was before. Now, well – I suppose I don't want it, anymore."

She felt a swell in her chest, a warmth that ached in its intensity. "Oh, Georg," she could only say.

The look in his eyes matched how she felt. "How could I ask you to give up your life on Milos for the unknown, only to take the coward's way out night after night? You've called me out on it once. Only you were too kind. I wasn't just running. I wanted to forget. And if I couldn't forget, then I wanted to destroy – destroy who I was so I wouldn't have to be that man. It was despicable, and it was you who made me realize it."

"Me?"

"Yes, you Maria. You are like a nevalyashka doll that can't be toppled, always finding your way upright." A smile crinkled his eyes, and Maria couldn't help a grin at the imagery of the little roly-poly Russian doll.

"I suppose it's become something of a habit," she said. "Although I have no idea how I'm going to overcome something that only manifests in my sleep." She shrugged with a small, rueful laugh. "I'll just have to stay awake the entire journey…"

Georg chuckled. "Lie back," he told her, scooting back against the cushions himself, stretching his long legs in front of him.

"I'm not convinced I'll have any better luck sleeping out here," she protested even as she did as told, carefully leaning back beside him.

"I wasn't going to suggest that we sleep," he said, chuckling again, the sound a low rumble in his chest.

Maria blushed. "Then why…" she began, nestling against the cushions.

"Look up."

She followed his gaze into the night sky, where a sliver of moon was lingering low near the horizon. The velvety dark space above them was sprinkled with stars, a twinkling tapestry that spread infinitely in every direction. The sea was wide, but the night sky was wider.

The stars were the same stars Maria saw from her apartment on the island. It was an impressive view, countless twinkling points and dusty white streaks, and she had learned to appreciate them in a way she never could growing up in the foothills of the formidable Alps. But even as the view on the island had been expansive, now on the boat in the middle of the sea, it felt like the sky was coming down to meet her, the stars close enough to touch.

Soothing, but also something wild, a little intoxicating. Bit by bit, she felt body unlock, felt herself relaxing, giving in to the night.

Maria turned her head slightly to glance at Georg, lying with his hands underneath his head. She could even see the stars reflected in the blue of his eyes, a blue made deeper by the night.

Enveloped by darkness, blanketed by the night sky, it could have been another world.

He tilted his head toward her when he felt her looking.

"Is this what you do when you can't sleep?" The question was quiet, half a sigh.

Georg smiled. "The sky at night is a sailor's map and a sailor's bible." His voice was equally soft. "The naval academy teaches you to read them but you learn to trust them at sea. I see them even when I close my eyes." She watched his lids flutter closed for a brief instant, before his eyes focused back on her. "So I suppose you might say I count stars like other people count sheep."

"I don't count sheep either."

A silent shake of laughter from him. "What is it that you do?"

"I sing the do-re-mi."

He chuckled out loud. "I should have guessed."

"I wish I could read stars. The only one I know is the North Star." She pointed into the night. "The brightest star in the sky."

There was a beat of silence. A blink. A soft smile. "That one is Venus, actually."

Maria's brow furrowed. "Venus?"

"Yes, the planet Venus. The one they say represents love, sometimes fertility. The brightest in the night, after the moon."

How could her breath catch when they were talking of stars and planets? The air felt like it was condensing around them.

"You see how the light is so steady?" Georg continued. "It doesn't twinkle like the stars. That's how you can tell it's a planet."

He pointed above them, drawing her gaze high into the sky. "That one is Polaris, the north star."

Maria's eyes searched the area he indicated, her head tilting toward his so she could see the sky from his angle. "That one?" She asked at last, pointing as well.

He nodded. "Yes."

"It's not very bright at all."

He smiled. "It's a misconception that the North Star is supposed to be bright. There are many stars in the sky that are brighter. Sirus, for example." Georg drew a line with his finger down to another star, which Maria found easily and could see was indeed significantly brighter. "Polaris is useful as a navigation tool."

"Because it's always… north?" Maria guessed.

"Because the entire sky spins around it."

Maria drew a breath. "Oh," she said softly.

"The North Star doesn't move. It doesn't rise or set. It remains in the same spot every night of the year, the only constant in the sky, an axis around which everything else spins."

Maria couldn't tell if he was speaking about stars or something else entirely.

"They say if one can find the North Star, one can find their way home." Though his voice was steady, Maria could hear the heaviness, the sorrow beneath.

_What they don't say is it may take years, and even then, you may never reach it. _

No, that wasn't true. Georg would. They both would – find their way home.

"Could you teach me?" She said out loud instead. "How to find Polaris?"

A few breaths later, and Georg's voice lightened. "Polaris is a part of the Little Dipper. See that?" He traced something in the sky. "It's in the handle of the spoon."

Maria squinted at the dusting of stars. "There's a spoon there?"

Georg smiled. "Have you ever looked for constellations?"

Maria shook her head. "Shapes in clouds, maybe."

"I'll show you. Let's find the Big Dipper first." His finger jabbed at the sky. "The big spoon."

Maria gazed upward, trying to imagine a bigger spoon.

"There are seven stars." He reached for her hand, a mere press of his thumb against her wrist, over her pulse point. "And they make a shape like this – " Lightly, he traced the shape of a boxy ladle into her palm. His trailing touch burned like the tail of a shooting star.

She couldn't help a slight shiver. Georg felt it, and paused.

Determinedly, she looked upward. "There?" She asked, shakily pointing with her free hand. She pressed into his touch, leaned in toward him until their heads were touching.

Surrendering to the night.

There was little space left between them. Still looking skyward, Georg slipped his arm around her shoulders, and drew her closer still. He repeated the constellation against her palm.

She closed her eyes, felt him. His presence warm, solid, enveloping like the darkness above. When she finally opened her eyes, she saw stars.

Maria concentrated until the stars came into focus, until at last, she could spot the shape of the spoon. "I found it!" Maria turned to him excitedly. Felt his lips brush her hair.

"Good," he chuckled, his voice a murmur above her ear. "Now, let's find the Little Dipper. Same shape."

He let go of her hand, only to take the arm she had been pointing with, guiding it slightly to the left. "There."

Maria managed to make out the Little Dipper, and she found Polaris twinkling along its handle.

They spent the night stargazing, Georg drawing constellations into her hand. The hunter. The swan. The harp. The queen. Until eventually they fell silent, her head against his shoulder, his hand making absentminded circles along the back of her arm.

Like the constellations themselves, they seemed to be part imagination, part fantasy. A part of the night sky, a part of another world. Fleeting as starlight.

And so she allowed herself to press her lips against his shirt, at the edge of his collarbone, and felt him exhale into her hair.

When Maria woke the next morning, it was past sunrise and her back was pressed against him, head still pillowed against his arm. She didn't remember falling asleep! Heart hammering, Maria flung herself upright, twisting to see Georg lying on the deck beside her. He blinked at her, her sudden jolt surprising him.

"You're awake," Maria said blankly as her moment of panic subsided. Of course he was. Georg was the earliest riser she knew. Why hadn't he pulled away? Everything, _everything, _should have faded with the darkness.

"I didn't want to wake you," Georg said simply. No mention of the night. No mention of their predicament. No mention of how they were mere inches from each other, his arm still wrapped around her. "You looked like you were having a restful sleep."

And she had. She felt more refreshed than she had in a long time, at peace, and –

" - no nightmares," Maria realized then. She stared at him, a startled smile on her lips.

"Good," Georg said, smiling back, pulling himself up and getting to his feet. He stretched a hand toward her, helping her up.

There was no hesitation, no sense of awkwardness. He didn't seem phased at all by what transpired between them. Bad dreams in exchange for a night of stargazing, of sleeping together on the deck. They were safe, tucked away in the darkness, thought perhaps not as fleeting as she thought.

They spent every night thereafter on the deck. Dinner was an afterthought, sunset always magnificent, but night – night was the masterpiece. Maria would watch as dusk turned to twilight turned to night, stars emerging one by one, then all at once. Georg would join her later after the night's navigation checks had been completed. Knowing how the nights would unfold, he'd bring a blanket to throw over their legs as they stargazed, to be pulled up to her chin as she fell asleep.

The lion. The ram. The bull.

Sometimes Maria would make up her own constellations, fingers dancing across the sky, connecting stars in a way that would make any astronomer turn in their grave. The mountain. The dancer. The guitar. It amused Georg. Made him laugh. An affectionate tousle of her hair before his fingers tangled themselves against the strands.

The twins. The snake bearer. The scales.

"Libra." Georg paused for a long moment, even after Maria had found it. She was getting good at this.

"What is it, Georg?" She asked finally, lifting her head from where she was resting against the crook of his arm.

"This is the one that haunts me."

"Of all the fearsome myths, Libra is the one that scares you?"

"I did not say it scares me." His chuckle reverberated against her cheek. "It reminds me I have tipped the scales so far that when the day of reckoning comes, they won't know what to do with me."

"You were a fiend," Maria agreed irreverently. Vienna. Austria. It seemed so far away. Another world away. She remembered thinking it before, but now she told him boldly that someday, he would need to face the destruction he'd left in Vienna, make apologizes and amends with the immaculate Baroness Elsa Schrader – who at the moment could have been a character in a book.

She felt his hands move in idle strokes across her back as he murmured his agreement.

The crab. The archer. The virgin.

Georg rubbed aloe vera into her burnt shoulders, teasing her for her fair Austrian skin. The area was tender, and Maria winced.

"Sorry," he murmured. "Too much?"

She shook her head. His fingers dipped beneath the collar of her shirt, his touch feather light, and she felt her back arch in response.

She felt him gently blow across her skin, cooling it, and made a sound that was half sigh, half hum.

"And your feet?" His voice sounded the slightest bit unsteady.

"Yes." She'd forgotten that accidently stepping barefoot onto the deck that day had burned her soles, but in that moment, she would have said yes to anything.

Georg shifted so he was level with her outstretched legs. He applied the lotion to her feet, his hands steady. His touch along the arch of her foot sent a jolt straight through her. Like he had done with her shoulders, he bent his head with a cool breath along her feet. He ended at her ankle, a touch of his lips.

"There," he said. She sensed him twisting around to set aside the aloe vera. "All taken care of."

_But it wasn't. Oh, it wasn't. _

On their last night onboard they did not look for constellations. Instead, Georg showed her the figures in the moon, bright enough now to obscure the stars. Maria asked if he'd studied selenography in naval school. He laughed, telling her the craters on the moon were of no use to him. But in the way the Greeks had woven mythology in the stars, the sailors he'd sailed with during his time in Southeast Asia had told him their stories written in the moon. Georg pointed out the dragon, and the rabbit, compounding medicines on the moon with his pestle.

He traced the shadow of the moon Goddess, a wife separated from her husband after she drank his elixir of immortality to prevent a man from stealing it. Even after flying into the heavens, she chose the closet object to Earth to be near her husband. He, in his grief and love, laid out food for her and dined outdoors under the moon for the rest of his years.

_I will never forget you. _

_You will be forever in my heart. _


	12. The Hotel

A/N: I'm getting to the point where I am mortified by my poor response rate to messages, especially when each review completely lifts me over the moon! Thank you thank you thank you. Hopefully this chapter NOT a few months long in the making will atone for a little and I will be able to thank you all personally eventually. xx

Those who were reluctant to see M&G's time on their boat sanctuary end... I am completely with you. It was jarring to come ashore. But we are close to the last leg of their journey and I am excited and working hard to push through it! There is also a piece of repurposed dialogue in this chapter I've been dying to flip since forever and I'm glad I was able to sneak it in...

* * *

The Hotel

There was a subtle change in Georg as they disembarked in Ancona. The very edges of him seemed to sharpen before her eyes, coming into focus, losing some of the softness Maria had grown accustomed to at sea. He appeared relaxed, a sailor coming home, but there was something coiled in the way he moved, a keener awareness in his gaze, that made her feel wary as she walked beside him along the main road in search of their hotel.

They'd pulled into the bustling port just past noon, the heart and lifeblood of an otherwise nondescript, gentle Italian city. Its austere, efficient harbor, with concrete docks extending into the water like the spokes of a wheel – large enough to accommodate those new cruise ships, Georg had told her – was in stark contrast to the humble, square-cut buildings in varying earthen tones that rose level by level to meet the rolling hills above. Fishing boats, yachts, ferries all jostled for space along the docks. Her momentous moment when Georg let down his anchor at last – her first time in mainland Europe in three years – was overshadowed by the terrifying incident of a passing tugboat that missed them by mere feet.

Georg swore, making a rude gesture as he glared at the passing boat – a gesture Maria had seen sailors make often, but never Georg.

It was with gentleness that he offered his hand to her, helping her down the gangway onto the dock. His blue eyes twinkled as he welcomed her home, but the hand she gave him was shaky. For a moment she shrank back, not wanting to leave the safety of the yacht, fighting a sense that _home _was behind her.

She couldn't falter now, Maria thought, marching alongside Georg. Ever the gentleman, he was juggling her suitcase, carpetbag, and guitar, plus his own bag. The streets were wide and well-maintained, with lanes for pedestrians and cars, but Maria felt a sudden pang for the dusty streets of Milos, friendly and familiar. It was cooler here than on the island – she would need to dig out her shawl once they got to the hotel. Oh, but how loud it was, the noise of passersby chatting, bicycle bells and idling car engines.

It took Maria several extra steps to realize Georg had stopped.

"Oh, is this it?" Maria backtracked to where he was standing in front of a building, cut identical to its neighbours and unremarkable but for a smartly dressed doorman standing in front of a set of iron-wrought doors. Georg nodded the same moment the doorman bowed, opening the door to admit them into the lobby. Georg paused briefly as the door closed behind them, Maria at his side. The lobby was spacious, if a bit outdated, with ornate trim along the walls and a Persian runner that lead to the counter. There was a fresh, citrusy scent that was a welcome contrast to the sea air outside. "It'll do," he said.

"You've never been here before?" Maria asked, momentarily confused. Georg seemed familiar with Ancona, and she'd assumed he docked here often.

Georg gave her a wry smile. "I would not dare bring a lady into the establishment I usually stay." There was an edge under his teasing words.

"Oh," Maria said. She pictured a seedy port hotel, worse than the Siren. A different clientele. A different kind of entertainment. She pushed the image out of her mind. "We could have spent the night on the boat."

Her lighthearted suggestion surprised a sharp laugh from him. "Not on the deck, though."

"Too busy?" She ventured.

"Too loud. And too many peeping eyes."

"Ah," she said vaguely, as the receptionist gestured them forward.

"Buon pomeriggio, signore. Signora." She spoke a smooth Italian, smiling brightly at them in turn. She was a petite woman who Maria suspected had been hired for her energy alone, her dark curls fairly bouncing as she nodded to them.

Maria offered a tentative smile when Georg failed to do so, his face suddenly guarded. She knew even less Italian than she did French, and she doubted the colourful words she'd picked up at the Siren would do much good as Georg launched into a fluent dialogue with the clerk, presumably to arrange accommodations for the night. She was animated, he stern.

The conversation lulled as the clerk pulled out a stack of papers, preparing to check them in. Georg reached into his bag to retrieve a few documents, handing them to the dark-haired Italian across the counter. She examined the papers, and then looked up with another bright smile.

"Ah, Herr Franz Schmidt, welcome to Italy." She switched languages so smoothly it took Maria a second to realize she could now understand it. It took another moment of confusion to understand Georg had chosen to use an alias. It didn't surprise her, but it was impossible to think of him as anyone else but Captain Von Trapp.

Georg nodded in acknowledgement.

"German?" Her pen scratched across her papers even as she chatted.

"Austrian," he returned, a bit stiffly.

"You speak Italian so flawlessly, I would never have guessed you were anything but Italian."

"I lived in Trieste for a number of years." Maria noted he actively avoided mentioning his naval career. The clerk looked like she wanted to ask more – Trieste was, after all, well known as a naval base during the war – but checked her tongue. Many who lived the war had no wish to be reminded of it.

"What's brought you and Frau Schmidt to these parts?" She asked instead. She leaned down to sign off on their check-in papers, and missed Maria sudden jerk of surprise.

"Oh, no, we're not – "

"Just passing by," Georg cut in smoothly. Maria stared at him. _He knew all along she assumed they were married, and he had let her think it. _

"Will you be needing information for the area? Places to sightsee?" The clerk was turning to the key rack behind her.

_Married. _Maria took a breath, trying not to show how much the thought affected her.

"No thank you. We will not be having time to tour the sights. We have a train to catch in the morning" Georg took her hand. He gave it a covert squeeze, and Maria felt reassured despite herself. He smiled at the clerk as she faced them again. "Regrettably, as I happen to know you have a beautiful citadel, and one very fine brewery."

The clerk laughed, charmed, and Georg accepted the papers and large key she handed him.

"In that case, the dining hall is that way – " she gestured toward one side of the hallway behind her, " – and the casino through that entrance," a wave toward the other side. "Have a lovely stay, Herr and Frau Schmidt."

"Thank you." Georg shouldered Maria's bags, waving aside the bellboy's offer to help. Maria followed in his wake, turning to give the clerk a small, albeit bewildered, smile.

Their suite was on the third floor, up a narrow lift. Maria and Georg squeezed through the small metal frame. Silently, she watched the doors close, felt the slow ascent of the elevator, and waited patiently for the doors to open again on the third floor.

They stepped out into a long hallway. It was quiet, the thick carpet muffling even their footsteps. "Georg?" she said tentatively as they walked toward their room.

"Yes?" Away from prying eyes and ears, his voice was soft once more, a tenderness that seemed reserved only for her.

She flushed. "We're – well, we're not…" Maria choked on the last word. _Married. _

"No, we're not." She couldn't read the expression on his face.

"Did you… mean for her to think that?"

He shook his head. "No. But I'm glad she did."

A pause. "Why?"

"Maria, if an unmarried woman checks into a hotel with a man, people will assume either one of two things." Another pause, before he continued reluctantly, " – that she is his mistress, or they are having an affair."

She bit her lip. She had been at the Siren too long, she thought, that she had forgotten the very idea of propriety. Pierre, too, had been quick to introduce her, first as his governess, then as his fiancée. She stole a sidelong glance at Georg. What words could be used to describe what they were to each other? "No one will know me here, it doesn't matter – "

"Yes, it does." He looked ahead, and the flash in his eyes could have burnt holes through the far wall. "I will not have anyone think that of you when you are with me, wherever we are."

His voice was low, the intensity of his declaration made her heart clench and warm. "Oh," she said, unable to find words to respond.

She should be – she _was _– grateful that he wanted to protect her, in the only way he could. Captain Von Trapp's wife, she would never be. But Herr Franz Schmidt's wife – she could be that for one evening.

She tried to smile. "Well, tell me about him."

He glanced at her, indulging her efforts with a small smile. "Who?"

"Herr Franz Schmidt. I should know what kind of man I married."

Georg chuckled, but didn't respond right away, so she ventured, "someone who doesn't like to draw attention, I know. Unlike Captain Georg Von Trapp, who by all accounts was a magnet."

"I haven't been Captain Von Trapp in years."

_You had for me_, Maria thought suddenly. He'd been a little evasive about it at first – she'd learned about his dead wife before she'd learned his name – but at least he'd been honest. Perhaps the closer he got to home, the more he sought to escape.

"So… who do people think you are?"

"Most don't think twice. But if they did…" His smile turned mischevious. "I would be one part butler and one part housekeeper."

Maria's eyebrow drew together, and she laughed in surprise. "After your own butler and housekeeper? Georg."

He chuckled sheepishly. "It was convenient. I was not…prepared to give a name at the time, and then it sort of stuck. They're common enough names."

They'd reached the room that corresponded to the number on the key. Georg unlocked the door and let them both in. He stopped just inside the threshold, eyes sweeping the room, frowning slightly.

It seemed just fine to her, she thought, squeezing past Georg into the vestibule. Maria had stayed in her fair share of hotels during her time with Pierre, and this room seemed in keeping with the rest; small for a suite, but had a large bed, a cozy sitting area, and a beautiful picture window that overlooked the town. She turned back to him quizzically.

"There's only one bed," Georg muttered finally, setting down their luggage with a frustrated exhale.

Maria hid a smile. After the week they'd had on the boat, he was apprehensive about this, of all things? "We're supposed to be married," she reminded him archly. It had, after all, been his idea. What kind of arrangement was he expecting? "Unless you'd rather pretend we've argued, and take out separate rooms."

Georg gave an exasperated huff of laughter, turning to her with a twinkle in his eye. Half affectionately, half playfully, he tweaked her nose. "I am trying to protect your virtue, darling."

She stretched up on her toes to brush her lips against his cheek, a perfect imitation of a married woman greeting her husband. "And I trust you, _darling_."

He shook his head, still smiling. "Maria, you are incorrigible."

"And _you_ are thinking too much."

Georg gave a sheepish little shrug, which Maria took to mean he acknowledged that perhaps he was. With that matter settled, Georg rang for some cool lemonade, and he and Maria passed the afternoon at the sitting area, admiring the view from their room as Georg told her stories of his time in Trieste, commanding Austria's submarine arm. They watched the sun drop over the rooftops of the town, and eventually, Georg suggested they prepare for dinner downstairs. They took turns using the washroom to freshen up, a routine that seemed almost second nature now. While Georg was getting ready, Maria looked through her clothes for something to wear. She hadn't needed to dress for dinner her entire time on the island.

When Georg reappeared in the room, having shaved, changed, and donned a jacket, Maria was dressed in her only good dress, the lovely blue chiffon she had splurged on while shopping for swimsuits on the island with Jenny. He stopped walking when he saw her.

She looked back at the tall figure in front of her, elegant lines and chiseled features, not a hair out of place. Gone was the rugged, brooding sailor, Georg was every inch the gentleman. Did she even know such a man? Who did he see, when he saw her? Maria gave him a tentative smile, spreading out her hands. "Am I suitably dressed? I'll have to wear my slippers – they're the only pair I have."

He blinked, and it took him a moment to reply. He said very simply, "you look beautiful," but as his gaze held hers, he said a thousand words more. He gave her his arm.

They descended the lift. The atmosphere in the lobby had shifted in the time they'd been upstairs. Where it had been sleepy and quiet in the afternoon, nearly empty, now there were plenty of guests milling about. Some were casually dressed, some in evening wear, all recharged in the cooler evening air, waiting to be whisked off to dinner, restaurants, parties. Maria stepped gingerly into the milieu. "I haven't done this in a very long time," she mumbled under her breath.

Georg glanced over. "I haven't either," he told her. "In fact, before tonight I actively avoided it."

"Hmm." There were so many people. Maria was used to people looking at her, but tonight, she didn't have the protection of pretending to be someone else. Maria of the Siren was gone forever. "What changed your mind?"

He drew her a little closer. "I want to enjoy the evening. With you." Then he slipped his arm from hers, only to settle it snugly around her waist.

"What are you doing?" She asked, laughing to cover her nerves as they made their way across the lobby toward the dining hall. Now she could feel eyes following them across the room. Admiring, perhaps, an indulgent glance at two people who appeared very much in love.

He gave her a devastating, devilish smile that made her forget all about nerves, and whispered into her ear, "I'm escorting my wife to dinner."

Perhaps it was just as well he had his arm around her. Ruse or not, Maria had never understood what it meant to be weak in the knees, until now.

Maria of the Siren was gone. She didn't know who she'd be after tomorrow, when they'd arrive in Switzerland at last. But tonight… tonight she was Maria, a woman married to a striking man.

Georg remained the playful, devoted husband throughout dinner, a set-menu affair under a glittering crystal chandelier, presented by a discreet waiter who, completely opposite to Stavros, melted into the shadows after serving each course. Georg ordered a bottle of wine, poured them each a glass, and left the rest untouched on the table. She was glad she didn't have to think too much as the courses arrived one after another, for she was only able to half concentrate on the meal. Maria had shared many meals with Georg, but none had been like this. This was the man Baron Georg Von Trapp must have once been; comfortable being seen, a witty entertainer, attentive to his dinner companions, completely smitten with his wife… How different from the prickly and slightly wild man she had met, the burdened man she had come to know, Maria thought in surprise, finding herself laughing, being entertained, blushing profusely. It suited him, she decided. Completed him. Made him the Captain Von Trapp she had always been curious about but had never fully known.

During dessert a band started up, a band from America that filled the room with soft, romantic jazz. Maria had not heard much jazz, having had her first taste of it while touring the Italian Rivera with Pierre, but she'd loved it immediately. She told Georg this. He replied with a chuckle, "have you yet to meet music you don't love?"

"Well… no," she acknowledged, laughing. "But I _know_ music that speak to my heart. I know music that leaves you thinking, music that your feet can't help but dance to… but I've yet to meet anything that speaks to my soul quite the same way jazz does."

She was flushed from laughing. From the wine. From the sheer delight of Georg's company and the wonderful music weaving alluringly through the room. He looked back at her, relaxed and smiling, like a man who had suddenly discovered the fountain of youth.

Maria was bewildered when quite abruptly he stood up, only to come around the table. He gallantly held out his hand in a way that might have made her laugh, were it not for the liquid fire in his gaze.

Automatically, she gave him her hand, before she could even open her mouth to refuse.

"You told me you were a poor dancer," Maria said weakly to his shoulder, as he led her to the dance space in the middle of the dining hall.

"I am, especially when stumbling along to waltzes by Strauss I can't even remember." He drew her smoothly among the dancers, catching her waist effortlessly as though he'd done it a hundred times. "I can't let you miss the best way to appreciate jazz."

"I don't know how to dance to this," she protested.

He pulled her close – closer than she was used to for all the dances she knew. "Jazz is all about improvising," he murmured against her cheek. "All about feeling."

And so Maria let herself feel. Let herself feel the music, feel him – the rhythm of him almost as familiar to her now as her own, song after song, dance after dance. They moved together in a gentle sway. There was very little movement, couples staying in their own space, never crossing paths – yet she felt it all.

They danced until the band stopped for a break. The guests dispersed, some back to their tables, some to the bar, others filtering out of the room through the lofty double doors. Georg and Maria were one of the last couples off the floor, Georg escorting her with a hand at the small of her back.

Maria sighed, feeling content, a strange sensation that was both lightness and fullness at the same time.

"Would you like to stay?"

She would have liked to stay forever. But she could also feel an ache in her legs, now that she'd stopped dancing, and a heaviness in her eyes that told of a long day. "I suppose we have a long journey tomorrow, haven't we?"

"We do." He smiled at the reluctance in her voice. "The train leaves earlier than you usually wake up."

Maria smiled back, already storing this night in her catalog of cherished memories. She met the glance of an older couple seated near the dance floor, and smiled at them too. Tonight, she loved everyone.

The woman responded warmly as she and Georg passed them. "What a lovely couple you make, dear."

Maria blushed, and felt Georg's arm tighten around her as she murmured a thank you.

In the lobby, Georg told her he needed to return to send a few telegrams at the front desk. Maria argued she could find her way back to the room just fine, and there was really no need for him to make an extra trip. Yielding, Georg saw her into the lift, and she made her way back to the room alone.

She missed his presence by her side already, this version of Georg who had chased happiness all evening.

_I want to enjoy the evening. With you. _

She wondered if she would ever hear those words again. The simplicity, the earnestness of that wish. She doubted it.

When Georg returned to the room some time later, Maria was standing by the window, still wearing her blue chiffon dress. She had turned on the light in the vestibule, but the rest of the room was dark.

"Hello," he said softly, coming up behind her. "You're far away. Where are you?"

"In a world that never existed, I think." Her voice sounded even further, nearly lost among the buzz of city life drifting from the streets below. "And yet – somehow I don't want to let it go."

He looked out the window across the dark rooftops, the houses made of rock that didn't reflect moonlight the way buildings on Milos did. Incandescent streetlights created a dull haze above the skyline. He traced Maria's gaze upward, toward the stars.

Georg never looked at stars when he was in town. The exercise gave him a headache, like he was stargazing through fog, or had been handed an exam paper with three quarters of the navigation chart missing… but tonight, tonight it made his heart ache.

He had been careless. Perhaps she had, as well. Tomorrow, they would find out if she had a hope of recovering her voice, and she would make her own way from there. But to ignore the past week was impossible. To think the nights with Maria – he knew she was thinking of them, too – could be forgotten like a dream or discarded like the Greek myths that inspired the constellations… it was unbearable.

_Is there any way I could bring you into the world I'm in?_

He didn't say it, because until recently, the world he had known had ceased to exist. This past week – he didn't know what to make of it. Didn't know if it was more dream or pretense or wish fulfillment, destined to remain one of the seas' many secrets.

And tonight, they had started the evening pretending to be husband and wife. Somehow, they'd both discovered it was all too easy, and they were more than willing. Georg had felt that way once, and never expected to feel it again. He felt alive in a way he hadn't in years. A switch had been flipped, and something, everything, had turned on. Life, he remembered, was meant to be lived, not endured.

He didn't say it, because he needed to tell her he was going to spend the night on the sofa, after all. If he did not, if they spent their last night together on the bed, if they spent it pretending to be husband and wife… he would break.

He glanced at the slender silhouette beside him, staring into the night as though she would find the answers if she looked hard enough. She would break.

He didn't say it, because Georg saw – had seen before now, really, only now he felt a startling clarity – what kind of world could be waiting for him. He'd been working toward it, his progress slow and arduous. And this time, Georg wouldn't – couldn't – let it go.


	13. The Swiss Alps

Still plodding onward over here, in between managing COVID and trying to enjoy the fringe benefits of summer. A few more chapters to go, I think (despite M and G nearly spontaneously combusting last chapter... I am not QUITE ready for it, haha). Thank you to everyone who has been reading, reviewing, and following along this meandering journey. Hope everyone is keeping safe, healthy, and sane! xx

* * *

The Swiss Alps

She was acting like a child, and he told her as much. His words might have held a hint of exasperation, but his broad grin said otherwise.

It was mid-afternoon. After a sleepy, early-morning start, two transfers, and keeping up the husband and wife façade for a number of stationmasters, conductors, and fellow passengers looking to make small talk, Maria and Georg were finally on the train headed toward Lausanne.

The landscape outside the window had changed from rolling fields to the cragged hills of northern Italy. Maria, who had been quiet all day, grew silent after their second transfer in Milan. She gazed out the window with something akin to reverence as the towering snowcapped peaks of the Swiss Alps rose alongside them. The train twisted through picturesque valleys, yellow and brown in autumn, along lakes so still they could have been enormous mirrors. He watched silently as she raised a hand to the windows, fingers resting lightly against the glass as the mountains towered around her, embraced her, welcomed her. The picture of a mountain girl coming home at last.

If only for this, Georg could not be sorry their journey was coming to an end. To reunite Maria with her mountains… that was something.

As they rolled into the outskirts of Lausanne, an idyllic vision of fields and vineyards and blue sky, Maria became fidgety, tapping her fingers against her legs, knees knocking together, not infrequently bumping into his as she bounced around in her seat, a ball of excitement and nerves.

"Even my little Gretl can sit still when traveling," Georg teased when she finally apologized as she knocked into the cup of coffee he had ordered, which was thankfully almost empty. _You look like you have ants in your pants, _Friedrich used to say, although Georg largely tried not to think anything about what was under Maria's clothes at all.

"Oh Georg, I was never good at hiding how excited I am – I was worse as a child."

"I can't imagine," he said drily, but he was smiling. Maria would fit right in with his children. He checked the words on his tongue, surprised to find the thought of Maria meeting his children had entered his mind. Georg hadn't yet decided whether he himself would drop in on the children during this trip. He thought vaguely perhaps _afterwards_, but he couldn't bring himself to look that far.

They both paused briefly as the conductor announced their impending arrival to the station, first in Italian, then French, then German. Maria turned to him, blue eyes alight and cheeks flushed. "My heart feels like it's going to fly out of my chest and oh, I can hardly breathe!"

He smiled, taking her hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze. She was achingly transparent, her nervousness and anticipation as plainly evident as the dress she wore. It touched him that she made herself so easy to read for him – Georg knew she could hide her emotions with skill if she wanted, her time at the Siren proof enough of that. Last night had been proof of that. Unbidden, his thoughts flashed back to telling her, as gently as he dared, that he was better off sleeping on the couch. The flash of dejection had been instantaneous, her face crumpling, eyes huge with hurt. It'd lasted only seconds, replaced moments later by careless resignation as she teased him again about his pretend-husband status.

They'd prepared for bed together, her digging in the closet for spare bedding to make up the couch despite his insistence that he was completely fine, he waiting for her to climb under the covers before turning off the light. They'd wished each other goodnight in the darkness. They fell asleep in the same room – closer than would have been conceivable mere weeks ago, yet further than he could bear. Maria, at least, seemed to sleep soundly. Georg lay on the couch, listening to her soft, even breathing. He'd done the right thing, and he spent the rest of the night trying to convince himself of it.

Tormenting himself with thoughts that had she been his wife, neither would have slept at all.

His _wife_.

_God damnit_.

He shouldn't have set them on that path at all. Georg had been alone too long, and it had been his first time traveling with a woman who was _not_ his wife. Even when he had been prevailed upon by Elsa to visit friends out of town, he had always insisted on a chaperone. Maria… she deserved nothing less. Georg should be ashamed, dragging her through the mud and forcing her to play along with the entire debacle. But remembering their evening… he couldn't regret any of it.

Getting over it… he would worry about that, later.

In any case, the nature of his and Maria's relationship wouldn't be an issue once they arrived. Karl has extended an invitation during his previous visit to his sprawling vista above Lake Geneva, should he return with Maria. Georg had been clear on how he had come to meet Maria, and he knew Karl would never assume what Georg wouldn't confirm. Both of them had seen too much of war to understand that relationships were devastating, powerful, fragmented things.

"We'll have to hire a cab to get to the hospital," Georg explained now, as the train rolled to a slow stop at the station. He had sent Karl a telegram from Ancona and received a reply in Milan, asking that he and Maria meet at his workplace.

Maria's grip on his hand was vice-like. He'd told her the plan on the train, and she'd nodded agreeably. But now they were here, and he could tell how overwhelmed she was.

"Or," he suggested lightly, "we could store the bags in a locker, go for a walk first. We're not in a rush. There's a little patisserie the children discovered downtown which makes a delightful apple strudel."

But Maria took a breath and shook her head determinedly. "No. I'd like to go now. I want to hear… if there's anything to hear, that is."

"Karl may not have time to do a thorough assessment now," Georg reminded her gently.

"I know." Everyone around them was standing, and for a brief moment Maria looked like a young girl, lost and uncertain. But in the next moment she stood as well, with a stubborn lift of her chin he had come to know all too well. "But at least he'll give me some expectations to look forward to."

She reached up toward the overhead compartments to help him retrieve their belongings.

Georg looked at her for a moment longer. Always moving forward with her fierce determination. She would be alright, wherever she was. A stab of relief faded into a lingering feeling of longing.

Maria followed him off the train, keeping close to him as they wove through the crowd on the covered platform. He felt her stop just as they were exiting the station, and turned to find her eyes closed, face upturned to the sky.

"Fresh mountain air," she announced, as she felt him looking.

Smiling indulgently, he tugged her away from the doors so they wouldn't get trampled. "_Cold _mountain air," he added. It was crisp, brisk with a hint of winter.

Her eyes opened, lashes blinking dreamily. "I've forgotten how the air _moves_. On the island it's always being pulled or pushed around by the sea – but mountain air dances, and flies, and tumbles, and _laughs_ – "

Georg chuckled. Her sudden invigoration was catching. "Like a brook as it trip and falls over stones on its way?"

She laughed. "My heart wants to sing every song that it hears," she confirmed.

"You'll be able to hear much more when we get to Karl's," he told her, as they began to walk again, heading toward the street. "The mountains around Lausanne are not as dramatic as Salzburg – "

They stopped at the edge of the road, and Georg put out his arm to wave down a cab. Maria nodded, as though it hadn't been one of the first things she'd noted coming in by train.

" – but you'll love exploring them. Karl has a beautiful property and the region is just exquisite."

"Hmm." Maria smiled, something lighting within at the thought. "It was very kind to invite us to stay with him."

A taxi had pulled up alongside them, and the driver got out to help with their bags. "Bonjour," he greeted them cheerfully.

Georg returned the greeting, then turned back to Maria. "Karl has always been generous – almost to a fault." He smiled fondly. "We'll stay until a plan has been made. But I don't expect he'll be home much. He's frequently attending conferences and meeting with experts, when he's not working at the hospital."

"Does he have a family?" Georg opened the car's door for her, and she slid into the backseat.

He chuckled wryly, sliding in next to her. "Karl will tell you he is married to his work." He hesitated, although Karl's past was no secret to any who knew him. "He did have a sweetheart, once. A nurse who did not make it through the war."

Maria covered her mouth, a muffled sound escaping between her fingers. "I'm so sorry," she whispered, full of feeling.

He cleared his throat, not wanting to dwell on a loss they had both known so much of. Georg felt rather relieved when the driver got into his seat, turning back to look at him. He leaned forward, giving instructions for the hospital.

As their cab started driving, he sat back to find Maria looking at him. "You spoke German."

He smiled. "Yes."

"I thought these parts of Switzerland speak French."

"They do," he replied. "I thought you might like to know where we're headed. You'll find the Swiss are talented linguists. You'll be hard pressed to find one that doesn't speak at least four languages."

"Four!" Maria gaped at him, then shook her head. "I'll stick out like a sore thumb."

"On the other hand," he said, reaching across the space between them to cover her upturned hand with his, _his _thumb moving across the pads of her fingers, "I think you'll feel right at home."

And she did.

The taxi driver kept up a stream of pleasantries in German as they wove through the city centre, a picturesque maze of colourfully painted houses and quaint windowsills. The storefronts were familiar, the traffic reminiscent of Salzburg, the signage often in a language she could actually read – Lausanne was both at once comfortingly familiar, and excitingly new.

Maria tried to keep her mind off what they'd actually come for, but the longer they spent in the car, the more she felt her trepidation grow.

She clutched Georg's hand as they pulled up to the hospital, a circular driveway with a fountain at its centre leading to an imposing entrance of curved archways that reminded her more of the Musikverein in Vienna than a hospital. She relaxed her grip slightly as she felt him wince. The driver stopped directly in front of the entrance, opened the door for her, and helped retrieve their bags from the trunk. She was glad he hadn't asked why they were there, as he pointed out the main door and the information desk just inside. Georg thanked the man good-naturedly, although Maria had no doubt he was quite familiar with where everything was.

As the cab drove off, Georg turned and led them, not through the stately entrance, but along a small path around to the side of the building. Maria followed silently, matching her steps to his. He glanced at her. "It's easier to find your way around this way," he explained.

Maria nodded as they turned the corner. One of the long wings of the hospitals stretched out before them – Maria easily imagined the other side of the building being a mirror image – in simple white brick, with neat rows of windows. In contrast to the grand façade of the entrance, the building they now strode alongside felt more like a school than anything, Maria decided, feeling more at ease.

Georg stopped them in front of one of the building's side entrances, a nondescript windowless door. The winding wooden staircase that greeted them was wide and functional, and they took it up to the third floor. It opened to a row of offices, each with carved wooden doorways and an ornate plaque proclaiming the doctor's name and specialty. The floors were a gleaming hardwood.

"This could be a hallway for a prestigious university," Maria whispered as they walked, resisting the urge to tiptoe as well.

"With the credentials of those who work here, it might as well be," he said.

They stopped in front of one of the doors.

_Dr. Karl Bonnetsmuller_

Maria gaped at the unwieldy title that followed, lips struggling to form a word that seemed to her a mile long.

"Ear, nose, throat surgeon," Georg whispered as Maria stared at the imposing sign. "Mostly the latter."

She felt her heart pick up, the sound rushing through her ears. She barely managed to nod as Georg mouthed, _are you ready?_

He knocked, the clear sound reverberating down the hallway.

There was a split second of silence. "Oh-ho, Georg! Do come in!" Dr. Bonnetsmuller spoke German in a crisp tenor, with a trace of French accent.

Georg gave her an amused shrug, and pushed open the door to reveal a tastefully decorated office and a smiling man sitting behind a large desk strewn with papers. Maria did a double take. What had Georg told her about Dr. Bonnetsmuller? He had been a highly skilled military surgeon and now a renowned throat specialist. He had lost his beloved and never married. Georg had never said outright, but Maria had pictured someone distinguished, older – with greying hair, perhaps. The man before her couldn't have been older than Georg, with reddish blond hair like her own cropped in short curls, piercing brown eyes and a boyish grin. "Karl." Maria heard the note of genuine pleasure in Georg's greeting. "Developed the ability to see through thick wooden doors? I'm impressed."

Karl stood, coming around his massive oak desk to shake Georg's hand. "Merely a keen memory for detail. I'd remember that arrogant knock anywhere. Though the ability would have come in handy back then, eh?"

Georg chuckled. The two men were of similar height and build, but Maria had the impression they were opposites. Georg was darkness and mystery and elegance, imperious as cool marble even in gladness. The other man seemed bright and energetic, by contrast.

He turned to Maria with a friendly smile. "You must be Maria." He held out his hand.

Maria reached for it. Instead of shaking it, Karl took her fingers with his, as though he were going to bring them to his lips. Instead, he gave them a squeeze, a gesture that strangely seemed both warmly chivalrous and appropriately professional.

"Dr. Bonnetsmuller." She felt a sense of ease with him. "Georg has told me a lot about you."

"Karl. Please." He shook his head, chuckling, his eyes twinkling and faintly puzzled. "The way Georg used to skewer my reputation behind my back, you are very brave to be here."

Georg made a tsking sound at her side. The two men exchanged brief glances, and in a subtle lift of an eyebrow from Georg and a slight widening of the doctor's eyes, Maria read he hadn't entirely expected her to come. She thought back to that night on the dock, when Georg had returned and told her he wanted to take her away from the island – for this meeting, he had said, although his eyes had told a different story.

She swallowed. "On the contrary, Georg sang your praises."

Karl blinked in surprise. Georg chuckled under his breath. "He must be mellowing in his old age," Karl told her, and she had to laugh at Georg's exhale of outrage.

The doctor ushered them into the room, offering them cushioned, comfortable seats in front of his desk. "Still," he said, more seriously now, "what I said before stands. I can't imagine it was an easy decision to make, and I thank you for coming."

Maria spread her hands. "Had I known it was an option, I might have done it sooner."

Karl nodded thoughtfully. "Good sailing?"

There was no doubt the question was addressed to Georg, but it took him a moment to answer. "Very."

"The Adriatic behave for you? No rough patches?"

"None at all."

"Is this a good time?" Maria blurted. She almost wished it wasn't.

"Yes, Karl, we don't want to delay your afternoon." Georg reached over to lay a hand reassuringly on her armrest of her chair.

He smiled. "I was just perusing some journal articles. The rest of my afternoon is wide open." He looked at Maria, and said gently, "I find it's the anticipation that makes most people anxious."

Maria opened her mouth to say she wasn't anxious, but closed it when it was obvious it wasn't true. She nodded.

"We don't have to do this now, but we can."

Karl had the same air of reassurance Georg did, although she imagined Karl acted that way toward everyone, not just with her.

"I would like to," she said resolutely.

He nodded. "Shall we send Georg to the cafeteria for some coffee?"

Maria opened her mouth, and then closed it, confused. It took her a second to realize that Karl was asking if she wanted to be seen alone. She snuck a glance at Georg, sitting beside her. He looked worried, but not offended. They were not family, she realized, and Karl was merely following protocol, offering privacy to protect his patients.

"He can stay," she said meekly.

Karl nodded again, slowly, even as she felt his gaze sharpen on her.

In the next half hour, she understood what made him such a beloved military surgeon. Had she been a soldier, she would have found in Karl Bonnetsmuller a solace in the midst of war. He exuded a sense of peace, of competence, asking traumatic questions and pulling answers in such a composed manner people forgot why he was asking them in the first place. Maria found herself rather calmly telling him about the accident, fleshing out details he didn't already know. She recounted what she knew from the fisherman who'd saved her, from Stavros who had seen her being pulled to shore, from the doctor who had revived her.

The most difficult was reliving her recovery, alone in shock and grief in the island's clinic – a three-bed ward where she had been the only patient in the four months she was there – in so much pain even breathing felt like a thousand knives at her throat.

"Alone?" Karl murmured, so quietly she wasn't sure he had meant to say it out loud.

"Well, no – not alone," she tried to clarify. "The doctor checked on me multiple times a day. The nurse was there. They were both wonderful. Many people I'd met on the island came too… but…"

The doctor nodded in understanding.

Georg's face became drawn as she talked. Maria had never told him the specifics, that day on his boat when she recounted her past she'd been so overwrought the story had spilled in a jumbled mess.

Maria forced herself to go over the days, weeks, months where she relearned to swallow, to speak, to master a simple seven note scale.

Karl listened intently. She liked that he wasn't looking at her with pity. He had probably seen thousands of injuries, she thought, far more severe and debilitating than hers. The idea felt oddly reassuring.

When he was satisfied he had the details he needed, Karl walked them down to his clinic. This part of the building appeared much more like a hospital, with linoleum tiles and fluorescent lights. Everything was a varied shade of beige and smelled like antiseptic. Maria understood why Georg had chosen to go around the outside of the building earlier – they passed so many rooms and hubs she would have gotten lost in an instant. When they arrived at Karl's examining room, Georg stopped outside even as he gestured for Maria to follow.

She paused as she passed him. _You can stay,_ she wanted to say. But her throat seemed to be stuck together. She felt the light touch of his hand on her shoulder. _I am here. _

When Karl examined her, asking her to think of something relaxing as he inserted a thin flexible camera down her throat, Maria thought of a night on the deck, under the stars. He had her make a variety of sounds, coaxing her along as she stumbled in trepidation.

Maria remained nervous as they walked back to his third floor office, an irrational fear of what Karl would tell her, what he could do, what he couldn't do. Georg appeared calm, his strides measured at her side, but she could read the tension in the set of his lips, the crease of his brow.

She knew him. If Karl could do nothing, he would blame himself for bringing her here.

Her hand slipped into his. Karl paused briefly as they reached his office, his eyes flickering to their joined hands all the answer he needed to forgo the offer to review his findings with her alone.

She and Georg sat in the same chairs they had been given earlier. Karl moved to sit behind the desk, and his movements to her seemed deliberately slow. She felt her heart lift higher into her throat with each passing second.

"Maria," he began slowly. "Firstly, I am just a lowly throat surgeon – "

Next to her, Georg snorted. "Karl," he warned.

" – but I've seen my share of trauma." He shared a glance with Georg, before turning back to her. "What a lot of people don't understand, but you have, is that the mind is the most crucial thing that needs to recover. You had ever reason to fall into despair, but you didn't. The accident forced you to accept your lot, but you did so admirably."

Numbly, she nodded. She understood what he was getting at – no matter what he could do, or what she chose to do, Maria would be fine. She knew that, but it felt like small comfort to her now.

Karl put his hands together in a steadying gesture, and cut to the chase. "Improvement. I am confident I can guarantee improvement, but it is hard to quantify. I cannot guarantee your voice will be just as it was before the accident… in fact, I am almost certain it will not be."

Maria let out a slow breath, processing this. It was as much as she expected, she reminded herself.

"There is quite extensive scarring, likely from the tube that helped you breath. There is also atrophy – muscle weakness of the vocal cords," he explained.

At her side, Georg sat a little straighter. "Atrophy, not destruction," he murmured, almost to himself, his own understanding of trauma injuries kicking in.

"Yes, precisely. Atrophic muscles are still muscles, and they can be rehabbed. Strengthened."

Maria inhaled so sharply it was almost a gasp, staring at the doctor. "You mean… I could have improved my voice with practice?"

"No Maria." Georg's voice was harsh. "Never think you didn't do enough."

Across the desk, the doctor echoed his friend's sentiment with a shake of his head, his voice much gentler. "Not in the sense you're thinking, Maria. Rehabilitation needs expert guidance – often a team, in this case lead by a speech pathologist. You didn't – couldn't – have access to that on the island." He reached a calm hand out toward Georg, who still looked stricken beside her. "Georg is right. You did enough. The question is whether you'd like to make a final push."

Maria nodded slowly. "I might not need surgery." She'd meant to ask it as a question.

"The surgery will help with the scarring, which will in turn increase the movement of the muscles," Karl explained. "But you would benefit from an intensive course of physiotherapy beforehand for surgery to have the greatest success, and you will need therapy afterward to recover."

"How long would the therapy last?"

"Several weeks at least, I would expect."

"And the surgery?"

"It would be a day procedure. There may be weeks of recovery and strengthening afterward before we can really know the outcome."

Months. She was looking at months. It may well be into spring before she found out if her voice could be successfully restored. And Georg – where would Georg be? They had never explicitly discussed it, but she knew neither of them had expected her treatment to take months. She looked at him sidelong, to find him looking steadily back at her.

His eyes had lost the sharpness with which he'd processed the assessment. They were soft, every bit as gentle as Karl's voice, with an added tenderness that warmed her to the core.

"Karl's villa is a lovely little location for stargazing," he murmured.

Suddenly, the long road ahead did not seem nearly as daunting.

Karl cleared his throat quietly, drawing his patient's attention back to him. "Actually, my hope is you can be admitted to hospital while undergoing therapy."

Maria blinked. It felt like the air had been suddenly sucked from the room. She couldn't hear. She couldn't breath. It lasted only a second before she got a grip on herself, biting her tongue before she could say, _I don't want to_, like a child would. She'd had enough of hospitals to last a lifetime.

"Karl, is that really necessary?" Georg asked, voice sharp.

"I know it isn't what you expected." Karl looked at her steadily, unfazed by Georg. "And of course, you wouldn't have to if it is too much. You will be having several sessions a day. It would be easier if you were on the premise, and that way we can monitor you regularly. You wouldn't be confined to the ward, of course. You can't tell from the front, but the hospital has some beautiful gardens."

Maria took a deep breath, trying to come to terms with staying in a hospital. Again.

Georg was looking darkly at his friend, eyes narrowed. Karl gazed back, brow furrowed, as though they were having a silent debate.

"You can visit," Karl said out loud.

Georg lifted an eyebrow.

"I'll waive the family rule," he muttered.

"And the time limit," Georg hedged.

Karl nodded. "Not overnight. The nurses will have my skin."

Georg frowned.

Karl caught Maria's bewildered expression. "The hospital normally has policies for visitors," he explained. "They must be family and cannot stay for more than an hour at a time."

"Oh." Maria bit her lip. She felt grateful – relieved – that Georg was arguing on her behalf. It meant he planned to stay. Planned to keep her company. She wasn't sure she had the courage to ask.

As though he was aware of what she was thinking, Georg turned to her. "It won't be like the last time," he promised.

Hesitantly, she nodded. "Okay," she whispered.

She turned to Karl. "Okay," she repeated, a little louder.

He nodded his confirmation, his eyes giving little away of what he thought of her choice. "Okay," he echoed. "I will complete the orders for your admission and therapy this afternoon. We'll try to have you in in the next few days, and it would be my pleasure to have you stay with me until then."

"Thank you, Karl," she mumbled, feeling a little dazed.

"I have a speaking engagement out of town tonight, but Georg knows the directions to my house, and knows to make himself at home."

"Thank you, Karl." This time, it was Georg who said it, the words heartfelt. They all knew it was for more than the warm welcome.

Karl was smiling as he stood. "You know, I was rather surprised when you came asking for advice," he commented lightly, speaking to Georg but looking at Maria. "Now that we've met, I am no longer surprised." He didn't move, but it seemed he pulled his gaze back to encompass them both. "It is always a pleasure to see an old friend."

Maria noticed a slight widening of Georg's eyes and a subtle twitch of his lips, like he was responding to something Karl had not said. Olds friends – still attuned to each other after so many years. If Maria hadn't been here, she wondered bemusedly, would they be speaking out loud at all?

She watched as his expression relaxed into a full smile as he too, stood. "Stop underscoring my advanced years, will you?"

"That would be rather like shooting myself in the foot considering I'm your senior."

"By months," Georg scoffed. "And – "

"Yes, yes, you were my commanding officer." Maria was the last to stand, fascinating as she was by this irreverent version of Georg that Karl brought out. The doctor winked at her.

He came around the table and walked his two guests to the door. "Don't let Georg work my horses too hard," he told her.

"What?"

"Georg had a fearsome reputation wielding his riding crop in our younger years." On Karl's other side, Georg covered a rather sudden cough with his sleeve, and Maria was surprised to see Karl's smile twist into an amused smirk. "My horses are older," he continued to Maria, "they deserve to be in pasture, not pushed hard by a demanding aristocrat."

Maria smiled, feeling more like herself again with the men's banter. "There wasn't much riding on the island or at sea" – _or much of being an aristocrat, either_ – "but he certainly is demanding, isn't he?"

Georg had regained his composure, his grin positively devilish. "_Demanding_, am I?"

Karl chuckled, while Maria hid a flush behind her hands, much to Georg's amusement. Karl murmured some quick instructions to Georg for when they arrived at his villa. The two men shook hands and Karl clasped Maria's hand in his. "We will be in touch soon."

Maria liked Karl – liked his kindness and his obvious intelligence, his easy manners and his friendship with Georg. Anyone else, Maria would have suppressed a sigh. She had a feeling they'd be seeing a lot of each other.

* * *

Karl's villa in the Alps didn't feel like the mountains she knew living in Salzburg. It wasn't nearly as wild, with vineyards on one side – Georg told her Karl made his own wine – and meadows on the other. The large house backed onto the edge of a bluff, a straight drop from the expansive veranda into the clear waters of Lake Geneva. She and Georg went for an evening stroll along the pathway that stretched from either side of the veranda, lit by soft lamps overhead, and Maria couldn't help but exclaim at the view of the lake at dusk.

"Karl always did have an eye for beauty," Georg remarked at her side.

Maria thought back to his elegantly decorated house, and a delightful meal of locally caught fish served by one of his cheerful staff.

"He really has no one to share it with?"

"I'm under the impression he does have female company from time to time, if that's what you're asking." He smiled.

"It's just… all of this – " Maria hands swept from the grounds across the lake, " – I wonder if he gets lonely."

Georg turned slightly toward her. "Are you looking to fill the void, Maria?" His voice was soft and teasing, with the slightest edge if she listened hard enough.

"Georg!" She blushed. "I wasn't – I didn't mean… well, I hardly know Karl, and you said he was married to his work. Which he certainly seems to be."

He chuckled, sliding an arm across her shoulders. Sometime between when they'd left Milos and arrived in Lausanne, they'd grown accustomed to these easy touches. "Thank God for that," he muttered.

She couldn't help but giggle. "You're certainly very possessive for a pretend husband."

"Of course I am. I'd be jealous of any man you looked twice at," he swore solemnly. "Never mind the man who had the honour of sharing with you – " a wave of his free hand encompassed their surroundings " – everything that is beautiful."

Maria blinked at the declaration that had gone from playful to passionate in a heartbeat. _Oh, Georg… _

They looked at each other for a moment, then looked away at the same time. They wandered further down the path, the silence palpable between them, but not altogether awkward.

Across the water on the opposite bank, lights flared into life, twinkling lights that swayed in the breeze, reminding her of strings lights and dining al fresco. Perhaps a restaurant. "So lovely," she murmured, pausing to peer at the rippling reflection below, ethereal like fairy lights.

"What would you like to do, once you've recovered from surgery?" His voice was low in the night. "Perhaps you could construct a theatre here in the mountains and give grand performances, which people would flock to hear."

Maria smiled. "And reel in all manner of female company for Karl?" Georg snorted. "Maybe I shall take up residence as leading lady in one of the premier hotels on the French Rivera."

"Or wander the world, giving master classes."

"I'd have to become a master first."

"It'll come."

"I could be prima donna in the newest opera to sweep across the continent."

"You most definitely could," Georg agreed. "Only don't forget your humble friends when you become famous. Would you visit and sing for me sometime?"

"I will," she promised blithely. "Whether on your little yacht or your grand house in Salzburg, I'll come."

As the words left her mouth, she knew they were true. If he asked, she would go to him, anywhere. And he, pausing in a pool of yellow-white lamplight, turned to look at her, and knew it.

His arm twitched at his side, as though he wanted to reach across the space between them, take her hands, her arms, her waist, to bring her closer.

"My grand house in Salzburg," he began, voice light, "is at this very moment being – "

"Excuse me, Captain Von Trapp."

Maria started, and they turned to find Karl's butler a respectful distance behind them on the path. Neither had heard him approach.

"Pardon me, Captain, fraulein," he said again. He seemed apprehensive, uncertain of what he had just disrupted. Maria gave him a sympathetic smile. "A telegram for you, Captain."

Georg stepped forward to receive it. The glance he gave her was puzzled as he unfolded it to scan the brief note. He frowned, and when he looked up, his eyes were snapping.

"Oh, in the name of – " He crumpled the note in his hand with a curse. "Max, you imbecile," he growled at the note, "you certainly have impeccable timing."

He stared at the telegram for a long moment. The butler, to his credit, had remained impassive to Georg's explosion, waiting patiently for a response or to be dismissed.

Finally, he turned to Maria, looking angry and defeated.

"Georg," she started tentatively, stepping up next to him. "Is everything alright?"

"It's from Vienna." He sighed. "I've been having some of my accounts moved, and now Max is informing me he's run into some issues. There are a few things that require my person and signature to process." He rubbed his temple in frustration.

Maria nodded slowly. Max – Max Detweiler – she remembered, was one of Georg's old friends in Austria. He had been particularly close to the family, helping Georg manage his estates in his absence. "You need to go to Austria," she said at last, understanding.

"Maria, I'm not leaving you here alone." His voice was firm. His hand closed around the paper. "This can wait."

"Georg, I might be here for months." She wrapped her hand around his. "You should go. I'll be fine."

"You'll be in the _hospital_."

"Yes, one of the best in Europe, you said. In Karl's capable hands."

Georg glowered. Maria gave his hand a squeeze. A matter of urgency had come up for Georg. These things happened. She knew better than to expect him by her side every moment of the next few months. He frowned at her as though she had said it out loud. "He'll write in case of any developments, I'm sure," she persisted. "Although I'm sure I'll just be here, plodding away at therapy."

Sighing, he covered her hand absentmindedly with his other. "These legalities could take several weeks to sort out."

"So take several weeks. And when you're done…" Maria swallowed, lifting her eyes to his, "come back to me."

She held his gaze. He looked at her, searching her face for a long moment. He seemed on the verge of saying something, before changing his mind, and nodded.


	14. The Ward

A/N (1): Update in record breaking time! Thank you to all who continue to follow along and read, like, and review, especially to the guest reviewers I wasn't able to thank personally! Hope you enjoy this lighthearted chapter - a bit of extra creative license applied on the POV here, but I promise it does eventually work itself out at the end... xx

* * *

The Ward

Outside, golden-brown leaves danced across the sky on gusts of brisk mountain wind, carpeting the ground in colours that were beginning to fade from rich to tired. Passersby had started donning hats, scarves, and warm coats. Inside the hospital on ward 3C, a lovely young woman had settled into room 12. The nurses couldn't categorically say she was a good patient; she was frequently late coming in from the gardens, reluctant to take medications – even regular painkillers following an initial rocky start to therapy, and she was a little clumsy, once accidentally knocking over the lunch cart on her way down the hall. But all the staff liked her. She was cheerful and enthusiastic, her sunny presence lighting up the floor. She was a musician, and although not strictly allowed, the staff took pity on her and let her play her guitar in the afternoons. Sometimes, during visiting hours, she would go from room to room and play for those who hankered after a little music to brighten their long days. After a few weeks, they could hardly imagine the place without her.

The young woman was unaccompanied. The only visitor she had was the doctor, but she didn't seem to mind. Dr. Bonnestmuller said the young woman was the friend of a good friend. He visited her daily, as he did all his inpatients, but sometimes more than once a day. Not infrequently, he would join her for a meal after his day was done, treating her to food packaged carefully in cardboard boxes brought from home. The doctor was a jovial man, but the nurses had never heard him laugh as much as when he was with her. They talked, too – the curious nurses who popped in to check on their patient when he was in the room overheard stories of a young wartime doctor and a cabaret dancer on a small Greek island.

There was hushed talk a romance had sprung between Dr. Bonnestmuller – still very much single despite his staff's best efforts to find him a wife – and his young German patient. But despite plenty of speculation, none of the staff were ever able to find more evidence for it besides a genuine pleasure in each other's company. A week into her stay, a large bouquet of yellow roses arrived for her with a nameless card. Did the woman already have a sweetheart, perhaps? Was there any other reason to sleep with the card under her pillow, and blush each time she read it for a week straight?

The young woman had therapy two to three times a day, and the speech therapists were impressed by her diligence and her effort at each session. She was making good progress, they told the doctor, her voice clearer and range starting to expand.

Almost a month after her arrival, Dr. Bonnestmuller left for a medical summit in Belgium. They made tentative plans for her throat surgery after his return.

A few days after that, a boy – a young man, really, well into his teens – was brought onto the unit and into the unoccupied bed in room 12. He had thick blond hair, a strong, straight nose, and a mouth that at any other time would be turned up in a mischievous grin. He had been brought up from the operating room, where the orthopedist had reduced and fixed a broken leg, and he was still heavily sedated. The story circulated up to the floor the boy had been in a fight at school, and an unlucky push had led to him tumbling down a ravine.

The boy spent the first day alone, groggy from the effects of morphine, a thin curtain separating him from Dr. Bonnestmuller's patient next to him. The nurses checked on him often, murmuring sympathetically over the cherubic, blue-eyed young man. Where was this poor boy's mother? His father?

The following day a girl, perhaps a year or two younger than the boy, came to visit him. She wore the uniform of plain blouse and pleated skirt of the prestigious boarding school not far away, her long blond hair tied neatly in two braids down her back. Her prim French had a noticeable German accent as she introduced herself as the boy's sister and asked for directions to his room. The clerk pointed out the way. As she did, she seemed unable to contain herself, asking the girl whether their parents would be coming.

"My parents?" The girl repeated, looking confused.

"Don't they want to see how your brother is after his accident?"

The clerk was matronly, and her voice was kind, but the girl didn't take kindly to it. She glared at the clerk, and the staff behind the desk all trying very hard not to listen in on the conversation. "We go to boarding school," she said finally, somehow still managing to keep her manners intact, "our parents are not here."

She gave them a scornful look that sent the staff whispering after she left the desk. The boy's sister seemed rather stuck up, and Holy Heavens, was she ever touchy. Surely any parent who could afford to send their children to _that _school could afford to travel to visit their injured son.

The girl didn't stay long in room 12. The boy was still glassy-eyed from medication, and she had class that afternoon. Although she wasn't above skipping a class here and there every now and again, she certainly didn't make it a habit. There was a sharpness – a defensiveness – about her that softened as she carried on a mostly one-sided conversation with her brother. She told him she'd brought some of his clothes and books. The teachers expected he keep up with his studies. The composition teacher in particular had been plenty cross about it. She'd forgotten his toiletries, but she would be back with them tomorrow.

The next day the boy seemed much better, sitting up alertly, his leg still hanging outstretched in its traction sling. He sported a fading bruise on his left cheek and temple. He managed to keep down some of his food, and leafed a bit through one of his textbooks. Once or twice he caught the glance of the pretty lady in the adjacent bed through the break in the curtain panels, and they exchanged smiles – hers warm, his tentative. He always had excellent manners when he wasn't drugged to the nines.

After lunch his sister returned, this time with a young lady trailing in her wake. This new visitor might have been a few years older than the boy and girl, closer to twenty. She had glossy brown curls, and wore a stylish olive green traveling suit.

The boy made a strangled sound as he saw the new guest. "_Liesl_?!" He rounded on his sister. "You told her?"

The older girl – Liesl – made an exasperated sound without so much as a greeting. "Don't start Friedrich. Louisa did the right thing." Even though she didn't seem much older, she had a maternal quality about her.

"It's all very well for you," the girl Louisa scoffed, throwing herself into the only chair. Liesl perched at the edge of his bed. "_You _were sedated. Did you see how your leg looked, all bent in that funny way? And the doctor going on to _me_ about how he was going to reset the bones, and you groaning away? I was scared."

All three of them looked warily at his leg, dangling midair in a thick bandage, thankfully straightened again.

"You didn't need to come," Friedrich muttered to Liesl. "I know you're busy with your studies."

"My professors were fine with it, and I brought my reading with me," Liesl said briskly. "And anyway, I'm your sister, so of course I needed to come."

There was a moment of silence. "You didn't call father, did you?"

The girls exchanged a glance. "The school tried," Louisa admitted, biting her lip. "They couldn't get a hold of him. They don't even know where he is to send a telegram." She shrugged. "I think they might have sent a letter… you know, to the house."

All three of them looked at each other. Friedrich looked relieved. "He'll never get _that_."

"Hopefully Uncle Max doesn't either," Liesl murmured, fretting.

Louisa snorted. "If he gets his head out of the wine cellar long enough to read the mail."

"He won't worry father over most things… but for this he might," Liesl mused. She turned to her brother. "Oh Friedrich, how could you? You know we have to stay out of trouble. _Anything _that happens to us, and the director will bother father with it."

The young man glanced down guiltily. "I know, I know."

Liesl bore down on him with her most parental expression. "Why did you have to get into a fight in the first place?"

Friedrich groaned. "I shouldn't have, I know. I was just minding my own business, honest to God… and then I overheard some guy – one of the sophomores – taunting Kurt. Calling him a sissy."

"And other awful names," Louisa put in. "I've heard him myself. I think it's got something to do with Kurt beating him out for the lead part in that play for drama class."

Liesl looked from one to the other, worrying her lip. She had never had a taste for boys fighting, but she would be the first to stand up for one of her siblings. "Well, just – be more careful about it, alright?"

He brightened, evidently expecting a more thorough grilling from his sister.

"What did the doctor say?"

Friedrich looked sheepish. "He said it was lucky it wasn't worse. He said I'll be able to start rehab in a few weeks and will be able to walk in a month or two."

"A month or two?!" Liesl cried in dismay. "What about school? Exams? What about the others?"

She reached for his arm, but he batted her hand away, looking as agitated as she sounded. "I don't know, alright? I didn't exactly plan out any of this!"

"The director says Friedrich can keep up with most of his work here in the hospital. Kurt's finished early in the afternoon most days – he can bring the class notes. Exams I'm sure he can postpone until the new year," Louisa finished practically. Despite her sharp exterior, she had clearly given careful thought to managing the crisis at hand. "And Brigitta and I can look after Marta and Gretl."

Liesl nodded thoughtfully. "I can only stay a few days, but my semester finishes early. I'll be able to come up for the holidays."

"I thought you were going to go with that chap – what's his name again? – to meet his family. You know, the one you and father had that row over last time?"

Liesl turned away from her brother, creamy cheeks flushing scarlet. Louisa glared at him.

"What?"

"That was before – " she gestured to his leg, " – all of this. And anyway, we're not together anymore," she finished in a mumble. Louisa slid over to the bed and put an arm around her. They exchanged a dark look.

"What happened?" Friedrich was frowning, looking from one sister to the other. "What did he do to you?" He sat up a little straighter, as much as his immobilized leg would allow, hands balling into fists. Never mind he was only in high school, never mind his broken leg – he was going to rip anyone hurting Liesl to smithereens.

"Nothing! Not like that." Liesl avoided looking at him. "Father was right, is all. I shouldn't fall for the first guy in my path."

Friedrich snorted, but he reached over to pat her hand. "He'll be delighted to hear you say that, when you tell him next time."

"I wonder if he'll be here for Christmas," Louisa mused. "He did say he would be."

"It'll only have been a few months since the last time," Friedrich pointed out. "He might still be at sea. At any rate, we should get a tree set up this year. Remember how Marta cried last Christmas because we didn't have one?"

"She cheered up when we exchanged presents though." Louisa smiled at the memory. "And even father sent presents."

"I think he'll come," Liesl said, brown eyes bright. "He was so… different, the last time. I remember him that way from – well, from when I was Marta's age. I feel sure he'll come."

Her siblings nodded. "He really was," Louisa agreed. "He was _here _here. I had _fun_."

Friedrich nodded. "That was the best week."

They launched into a string of happy reminisces. From the way they talked, rapid fire one after another, it was clear they had done this a number of times since the visit.

"Remember how he sang that silly song about the unicorn for the girls?"

"That he sang _at all_?"

"That night we went hunting for baked goods?"

"And went for ice cream!"

"Remember when we went biking along the lake?"

"Remember when Kurt's kite got caught on a tree branch and he had to climb the tree to get it?"

Then – "I wonder what changed him."

The siblings looked at each other. They paused, each having wondered but never voiced out loud. "Time, probably," Friedrich offered wisely, but then followed more seriously. "I noticed he was drinking hardly at all."

"Or maybe he got into a huge fight with Baroness Schraeder. That would be enough to put anyone in a good mood."

"Louisa," Liesl scolded, but couldn't help a giggle.

"See? It's funny."

"Maybe he's met somebody."

"Maybe he's fallen in love."

They looked at each other again. Each of the children would have cheerfully endured boarding school if it would have made father happy, even if the Baroness had been the one to suggest it. But they knew it had not. Baroness Schraeder had not. For all they were children, they knew father had never loved Baroness Schraeder.

In that moment, a cheerful tune filled the room.

It came from the other side of the curtains that separated the two beds in the room. It was an old folk song they knew growing up in Austria, lively and upbeat, and they all wondered simultaneously whether it was meant for them.

The siblings glanced at each other, bewildered. Friedrich shrugged, remembering the young woman who occupied the bed next to him. Carefully, Liesl peeled back a curtain panel, and the three of them peeked around the other side. Liesl tried to convince herself she wasn't invading anybody's privacy – after all, why play if you didn't want to be heard?

A woman, perhaps in her late twenties, was strumming away on her guitar. She had short blond hair, an ugly nightdress, and glanced at them with bright blue eyes when she saw them looking. They could only stare.

"Oh, don't mind me," she said pleasantly in German.

They stared even harder.

She finished her song, then set aside her guitar. She turned to them with a friendly smile, looking each of them over in turn, like they were old friends of hers she hadn't seen in years.

"My name is Maria," she introduced herself at last. "And you… are the Von Trapp children."

* * *

She heard Liesl's gasp of shock, saw Friedrich's mouth fall open and Louisa's eyebrows travel up her forehead, and wondered uneasily whether she should have chosen a gentler introduction.

Maria was not really in the habit of eavesdropping_, much_, but it was difficult not to overhear when all that separated you and the family reunion happening one bed over was a thin curtain divider.

She had guessed, based on the children's names – and such lovely names, even more so when matched to faces – who they were, although even then it seemed too much of a coincidence. But she was sure, when she heard the way they talked about their father.

_How protective they were of him! _

These were Georg's children.

_They think he's fallen in love! _

How could it be?

Maria saw bits of him in Liesl's thick, luxurious hair, in Friedrich's straight, proud nose. Louisa had his quick wit and quick temper. They all had his eyes, a few shades lighter, a few shades darker – eyes currently staring at her in bewilderment.

She looked back at then with innocently wide eyes, taking a deep, internal breath to steel herself. "You… _are_ the Von Trapp children?"

Maria knew this as sure as she knew her own name, but she wanted to get the children talking again.

"Y – yes. I'm Liesl," the eldest Von Trapp said uncertainly, "and this is Louisa." She nudged her sister, who was looking at Maria with eyes full of suspicion.

"And I'm Friedrich, fraulein," said Georg's oldest son, with impeccable manners.

"How do you know us?"

"Oh Louisa, I know your father. And he talked about you… some of the time." Not at first, maybe – but eventually. And even then, Maria managed to check what she'd been about to say on her tongue. These children would never believe their father talked about them all of the time.

The three shared a glance, the second part of what she'd said perhaps more startling than the first. "How do you know father?"

"Louisa!" Friedrich hissed, "you shouldn't ask that!"

"Why not?" She glared at her brother, but deigned to whisper. "Don't you want to know?"

"Well of course, but maybe it's not our business."

"Oh it's perfectly alright – " Maria cut in, swallowing the word _children_ with difficulty. Both she and Georg had referred to them as children, but it didn't seem right, somehow – these three were hardly children. They were all in their late teens and had grown up much too quickly. "I wouldn't have introduced myself if I didn't want to meet you."

Maria had spent the past half hour behind the curtain in increasing astonishment. How could_ this_ Liesl and Friedrich and Louisa be Georg's children? How could they be _here_, of all places? Had the Higher Powers at work brought them together when Georg himself – or Maria, for that matter – had no intention of doing so?

Her confusion had slowly morphed into a feeling of increasing awkwardness as the conversation between the children went on. She could smile and befriend the poor youth with the broken leg before she knew who he was, but there was no way she could pretend she did not know now that she _did _know.

She could ignore them, leave them be for the duration of her stay – but that wasn't her way. She liked children. Even if she did not already have a soft spot for the Von Trapp children, her heart would have gone out to these three dears who loved their father fiercely and were trying so hard to raise themselves.

She could mention nothing of Georg, or that she knew of the children at all – but Maria wasn't that good an actress.

And plus, she was curious. She _wanted _to meet them. Wanted to get to know them.

She worried her bottom lip as the children talked next to her. How should she tell them she knew their father?

"We met on the Greek islands earlier this year," she started now. "I was working and your father was passing through."

"He did say he was in Greece this summer!" Liesl said eagerly.

"Was he there long?"

Maria needn't have worried over how the children would react to her knowing Georg. They listened raptly, even Louisa, hungry for any story that concerned their father, and what he did when he was absent for most of the year.

"He was there for several months."

"Several months!" Louisa echoed in disbelief.

"Your father had injured his hand, you see, and it took a few weeks to heal. He couldn't sail." That was the explanation she always gave herself whenever she wondered why Georg had stayed as long as he did. Maria hesitated briefly. "We learned we were both from Salzburg, and could speak to each other in German, and became friends."

It seemed like the simplest explanation.

"You're from Salzburg too?" Liesl was fairly bouncing with excitement.

Louisa hesitated. "Father usually doesn't like to talk about …home."

Maria wavered. She could not tell this young innocent that Georg had been exceedingly drunk that night, or what distractions he had been seeking when he had gone to the Siren in the first place. In any case, while that fateful night at the Siren had drawn them together, they had not become… close, until much later. Maria decided to tell them the truth.

"Your father learned I had lost someone very close to me. We were in an accident." She took a steadying breath, then said slowly, "I think it helped us understand each other a little more."

Maria saw the moment each child's expression cleared. Each understood perfectly how grief, perhaps someone as broken as he was, would have appealed to their father.

Liesl tilted her head, considering. "Did father hear you play guitar? He used to play too. That's something else you have in common!"

Maria smiled. "Yes Liesl. Playing the guitar was a part of my job where I worked." _Among other things_.

"What about horseback riding?" Friedrich said eagerly. "He used to love that too."

She looked at the hopeful faces in front of her, as though they were counting on her to bring back bits of the man Georg had once been. The man who loved his family more than anything.

"And swimming?" Louisa asked, before she could answer. "Surely you must have done _that _on the island."

"Well children," Maria started, feeling comfortable enough with them to try out the endearment. They didn't seem to mind. "Let me see… we didn't have horses, but we did go biking one time. My landlord had some bicycles he let us borrow. Only the paths were so narrow and uneven your father's wheel got caught in a divot, and he took a bit of a tumble…"

She hoped she hadn't bruised Georg's dignity too much, but it would have been worth it to hear the children's laughter.

"And I don't swim much. But your father went for a swim in the Aegean nearly every morning." They hung on to her words, and sympathetic, she gave in to the hunger in their eyes. Anything about their father. "There were a lot of beaches for walking, though. A great white stone beach – your father said he'd never seen anything like it. We went wading a bit. And once we were having ice cream on the beach and I may have lobbed some into your father's face…"

Louisa clapped her hands together and Friedrich hooted gleefully. Maria, wary of feeding them too much, was touched to find they didn't seem jealous at all. They only wanted to hear the stories, happy to learn that he had been happy.

"Did he take you sailing?" Maria knew by the small catch in her voice Liesl understood what taking someone onto his boat would mean to her father.

Hurriedly, Maria shook her head. "Only to come here," she told them. "The accident – it damaged my voice. When your father learned of it, he helped connect me to a doctor here who might be able to help."

"Wait a minute, remember father did say he went to see a friend of his when he was here last? He was a doctor!" Friedrich said.

"A throat doctor, that's right!" Louisa suddenly recalled. The children looked at each other excitedly, as though they were putting together a puzzle that was suddenly falling into place.

Liesl smiled broadly at Maria. "I'm so glad father had that connection, Fraulein Maria! He knows everybody, doesn't he?" Her smiled faltered. "He used to, anyway."

Maria returned the smile warmly. The children didn't seem inclined to press her further. They seemed content to know their father had been able to help her, that they were friends, and she was here. Louisa, she could tell, would still be a little reserved, but as least she didn't look as mistrusting as she did at first.

"Do you know if he'll be here to visit for the holidays?" Friedrich, on the other hand, had decided to trust her completely.

Maria hesitated. Georg hadn't told her whether he'd planned on dropping in to see the children. How would Georg react, if he could see Maria together with them in the hospital? He didn't even know his son had been hospitalized! What would he do when he learned they had met the woman he never intended for them to meet? Mentally, she shook her head. It would be a surprise, certainly, but there was nothing else to it.

"Oh, do tell us Fraulein Maria!" Liesl had caught on to her hesitation.

"Sooner than that, I hope." Entirely for their sake, she hoped it was the case.

Liesl clasped her hands together, and Friedrich and Louisa shared an excited grin. "You really think so?"

"I do."

"We shouldn't tell the others, though. Just in case." They had had too many instances of getting their hopes up in the past, Maria gathered.

"You're right Friedrich. But we can bring them to visit, right?" Louisa's eyes sparkled. "To meet Fraulein Maria? They'll love hearing the stories about father!"

"And oh, you'll play for them, won't you Fraulein Maria?" Friedrich asked. "That song you were playing for us?"

"Oh, Marta and Gretl won't know what that is," Louisa argued. "Better nursery songs for them."

"The Do-re-mi," Friedrich suggested. "That's what mother taught us when we were first learning."

The two teens bickered back and forth about which songs Maria should play for when their siblings came. Liesl smiled indulgently, before sliding over to sit with Maria. "And you'll stay if father comes?" Liesl's eyes were earnest. "You love him very much, I can tell you do."

Maria's eyes flew wide, hearing Georg's daughter say the words she hadn't dared think. She glanced hurriedly at the others, who were too absorbed in their debate to pay them any attention. Her gaze returned to Liesl. She was halfway to a denial – not only what was between her and Georg too complex for words, Maria did not want to disappoint Liesl by giving her false hope – when she realized it would be useless. The girl might have been looking at her, but she wasn't seeing Maria, her dreamy eyes thinking of something far away.

Maria sighed. She would have to have a gentle talk with Liesl some other time. Georg's eldest daughter was more woman than girl, with still starry-eyed ideals of love. Long starved for love, really. Could she really fault Liesl for seeing it everywhere? But despite Maria's best intentions, for a moment she allowed her mind to repeat those words. Allowed it to – however briefly – believe it. Allowed it to even, perhaps a little treacherously, add,

_Very much._

* * *

A/N(2): I love writing about the children and was so glad I was able to introduce them back into the story. This chapter basically wrote itself, as over the last year of writing this story all the ideas I had about the children's various idiosyncrasies wove themselves into this chapter. Alas, there was no Georg... Would love to know your thoughts!

*Edit - also, a little lighthearted secret from the ER (at Friedrich's expense): 'minding my own business' is a very dangerous pastime... and frequently evolves into an incident concerning "some guy". :D


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